“Is this genuine?” asked my uncle.

“Yes, Sir Charles,” answered the landlord; “the man is waiting below.”

“It’s a kid!” cried several of the fighting-men.  “Some cove is a gammonin’ us.”

“Don’t you believe it,” answered the landlord.  “He’s a real slap-up Corinthian, by his dress; and he means what he says, or else I ain’t no judge of a man.”

My uncle whispered for a few moments with the Prince of Wales.  “Well, gentlemen,” said he, at last, “the night is still young, and if any of you should wish to show the company a little of your skill, you could not ask a better opportunity.”

“What weight is he, Bill?” asked Jem Belcher.

“He’s close on six foot, and I should put him well into the thirteen stones when he’s buffed.”

“Heavy metal!” cried Jackson.  “Who takes him on?”

They all wanted to, from nine-stone Dutch Sam upwards.  The air was filled with their hoarse shouts and their arguments why each should be the chosen one.  To fight when they were flushed with wine and ripe for mischief—­above all, to fight before so select a company with the Prince at the ringside, was a chance which did not often come in their way.  Only Jackson, Belcher, Mendoza, and one or two others of the senior and more famous men remained silent, thinking it beneath their dignity that they should condescend to so irregular a bye-battle.

“Well, you can’t all fight him,” remarked Jackson, when the babel had died away.  “It’s for the chairman to choose.”

“Perhaps your Royal Highness has a preference,” said my uncle.

“By Jove, I’d take him on myself if my position was different,” said the Prince, whose face was growing redder and his eyes more glazed.  “You’ve seen me with the mufflers, Jackson!  You know my form!”

“I’ve seen your Royal Highness, and I have felt your Royal Highness,” said the courtly Jackson.

“Perhaps Jem Belcher would give us an exhibition,” said my uncle.

Belcher smiled and shook his handsome head.

“There’s my brother Tom here has never been blooded in London yet, sir.  He might make a fairer match of it.”

“Give him over to me!” roared Joe Berks.  “I’ve been waitin’ for a turn all evenin’, an’ I’ll fight any man that tries to take my place.  ’E’s my meat, my masters.  Leave ’im to me if you want to see ’ow a calf’s ’ead should be dressed.  If you put Tom Belcher before me I’ll fight Tom Belcher, an’ for that matter I’ll fight Jem Belcher, or Bill Belcher, or any other Belcher that ever came out of Bristol.”

It was clear that Berks had got to the stage when he must fight some one.  His heavy face was gorged and the veins stood out on his low forehead, while his fierce grey eyes looked viciously from man to man in quest of a quarrel.  His great red hands were bunched into huge, gnarled fists, and he shook one of them menacingly as his drunken gaze swept round the tables.