Sir Lothian rose with a paper in his hand.

“The terms, your Royal Highness and gentlemen, are briefly these,” said he.  “My man, Crab Wilson, of Gloucester, having never yet fought a prize battle, is prepared to meet, upon May the 18th of this year, any man of any weight who may be selected by Sir Charles Tregellis.  Sir Charles Tregellis’s selection is limited to men below twenty or above thirty-five years of age, so as to exclude Belcher and the other candidates for championship honours.  The stakes are two thousand pounds against a thousand, two hundred to be paid by the winner to his man; play or pay.”

It was curious to see the intense gravity of them all, fighters and backers, as they bent their brows and weighed the conditions of the match.

“I am informed,” said Sir John Lade, “that Crab Wilson’s age is twenty-three, and that, although he has never fought a regular P.R. battle, he has none the less fought within ropes for a stake on many occasions.”

“I’ve seen him half a dozen times at the least,” said Belcher.

“It is precisely for that reason, Sir John, that I am laying odds of two to one in his favour.”

“May I ask,” said the Prince, “what the exact height and weight of Wilson may be?”

“Five foot eleven and thirteen-ten, your Royal Highness.”

“Long enough and heavy enough for anything on two legs,” said Jackson, and the professionals all murmured their assent.

“Read the rules of the fight, Sir Lothian.”

“The battle to take place on Tuesday, May the 18th, at the hour of ten in the morning, at a spot to be afterwards named.  The ring to be twenty foot square.  Neither to fall without a knock-down blow, subject to the decision of the umpires.  Three umpires to be chosen upon the ground, namely, two in ordinary and one in reference.  Does that meet your wishes, Sir Charles?”

My uncle bowed.

“Have you anything to say, Wilson?”

The young pugilist, who had a curious, lanky figure, and a craggy, bony face, passed his fingers through his close-cropped hair.

“If you please, zir,” said he, with a slight west-country burr, “a twenty-voot ring is too small for a thirteen-stone man.”

There was another murmur of professional agreement.

“What would you have it, Wilson?”

“Vour-an’-twenty, Sir Lothian.”

“Have you any objection, Sir Charles?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Anything else, Wilson?”

“If you please, zir, I’d like to know whom I’m vighting with.”

“I understand that you have not publicly nominated your man, Sir Charles?”

“I do not intend to do so until the very morning of the fight.  I believe I have that right within the terms of our wager.”

“Certainly, if you choose to exercise it.”

“I do so intend.  And I should be vastly pleased if Mr. Berkeley Craven will consent to be stake-holder.”