A rough crowd had assembled in the street to see the fighting-men go in, and my uncle warned me to look to my pockets as we pushed our way through it.  Within was a large room with faded red curtains, a sanded floor, and walls which were covered with prints of pugilists and race-horses.  Brown liquor-stained tables were dotted about in it, and round one of these half a dozen formidable-looking men were seated, while one, the roughest of all, was perched upon the table itself, swinging his legs to and fro.  A tray of small glasses and pewter mugs stood beside them.

“The boys were thirsty, sir, so I brought up some ale and some liptrap,” whispered the landlord; “I thought you would have no objection, sir.”

“Quite right, Bob!  How are you all?  How are you, Maddox?  How are you, Baldwin?  Ah, Belcher, I am very glad to see you.”

The fighting-men rose and took their hats off, except the fellow on the table, who continued to swing his legs and to look my uncle very coolly in the face.

“How are you, Berks?”

“Pretty tidy.  ’Ow are you?”

“Say ‘sir’ when you speak to a genelman,” said Belcher, and with a sudden tilt of the table he sent Berks flying almost into my uncle’s arms.

“See now, Jem, none o’ that!” said Berks, sulkily.

“I’ll learn you manners, Joe, which is more than ever your father did.  You’re not drinkin’ black-jack in a boozin’ ken, but you are meetin’ noble, slap-up Corinthians, and it’s for you to behave as such.”

“I’ve always been reckoned a genelman-like sort of man,” said Berks, thickly, “but if so be as I’ve said or done what I ’adn’t ought to—­ "

“There, there, Berks, that’s all right!” cried my uncle, only too anxious to smooth things over and to prevent a quarrel at the outset of the evening.  “Here are some more of our friends.  How are you, Apreece?  How are you, Colonel?  Well, Jackson, you are looking vastly better.  Good evening, Lade.  I trust Lady Lade was none the worse for our pleasant drive.  Ah, Mendoza, you look fit enough to throw your hat over the ropes this instant.  Sir Lothian, I am glad to see you.  You will find some old friends here.”

Amid the stream of Corinthians and fighting-men who were thronging into the room I had caught a glimpse of the sturdy figure and broad, good-humoured face of Champion Harrison.  The sight of him was like a whiff of South Down air coming into that low-roofed, oil-smelling room, and I ran forward to shake him by the hand.

“Why, Master Rodney—­or I should say Mr. Stone, I suppose—­you’ve changed out of all knowledge.  I can’t hardly believe that it was really you that used to come down to blow the bellows when Boy Jim and I were at the anvil.  Well, you are fine, to be sure!”

“What’s the news of Friar’s Oak?” I asked eagerly.

“Your father was down to chat with me, Master Rodney, and he tells me that the war is going to break out again, and that he hopes to see you here in London before many days are past; for he is coming up to see Lord Nelson and to make inquiry about a ship.  Your mother is well, and I saw her in church on Sunday.”