“I hope I have not hurt you much.”

“I’m hard put to it to stand.  How are you?”

“My head’s singin’ like a kettle.  It was the rain that helped me.”

“Yes, I thought I had you beat one time.  I never wish a better battle.”

“Nor me either.  Good-bye.”

And so those two brave-hearted fellows made their way amidst the yelping roughs, like two wounded lions amidst a pack of wolves and jackals.  I say again that, if the ring has fallen low, it is not in the main the fault of the men who have done the fighting, but it lies at the door of the vile crew of ring-side parasites and ruffians, who are as far below the honest pugilist as the welsher and the blackleg are below the noble racehorse which serves them as a pretext for their villainies.

CHAPTER XIX—­CLIFFE ROYAL

My uncle was humanely anxious to get Harrison to bed as soon as possible, for the smith, although he laughed at his own injuries, had none the less been severely punished.

“Don’t you dare ever to ask my leave to fight again, Jack Harrison,” said his wife, as she looked ruefully at his battered face.  “Why, it’s worse than when you beat Black Baruk; and if it weren’t for your topcoat, I couldn’t swear you were the man who led me to the altar!  If the King of England ask you, I’ll never let you do it more.”

“Well, old lass, I give my davy that I never will.  It’s best that I leave fightin’ before fightin’ leaves me.”  He screwed up his face as he took a sup from Sir Charles’s brandy flask.  “It’s fine liquor, sir, but it gets into my cut lips most cruel.  Why, here’s John Cummings of the Friars’ Oak Inn, as I’m a sinner, and seekin’ for a mad doctor, to judge by the look of him!”

It was certainly a most singular figure who was approaching us over the moor.  With the flushed, dazed face of a man who is just recovering from recent intoxication, the landlord was tearing madly about, his hat gone, and his hair and beard flying in the wind.  He ran in little zigzags from one knot of people to another, whilst his peculiar appearance drew a running fire of witticisms as he went, so that he reminded me irresistibly of a snipe skimming along through a line of guns.  We saw him stop for an instant by the yellow barouche, and hand something to Sir Lothian Hume.  Then on he came again, until at last, catching sight of us, he gave a cry of joy, and ran for us full speed with a note held out at arm’s length.

“You’re a nice cove, too, John Cummings,” said Harrison, reproachfully.  “Didn’t I tell you not to let a drop pass your lips until you had given your message to Sir Charles?”

“I ought to be pole-axed, I ought,” he cried in bitter repentance.  “I asked for you, Sir Charles, as I’m a livin’ man, I did, but you weren’t there, and what with bein’ so pleased at gettin’ such odds when I knew Harrison was goin’ to fight, an’ what with the landlord at the George wantin’ me to try his own specials, I let my senses go clean away from me.  And now it’s only after the fight is over that I see you, Sir Charles, an’ if you lay that whip over my back, it’s only what I deserve.”