“I trust, Harrison, that your opposition is withdrawn?” said my uncle.

“Can I not take his place?”

“You would not have it said that I gave a challenge and let another carry it out?” whispered Jim.  “This is my one chance.  For Heaven’s sake don’t stand in my way.”

The smith’s broad and usually stolid face was all working with his conflicting emotions.  At last he banged his fist down upon the table.

“It’s no fault of mine!” he cried.  “It was to be and it is.  Jim, boy, for the Lord’s sake remember your distances, and stick to out-fightin’ with a man that could give you a stone.”

“I was sure that Harrison would not stand in the way of sport,” said my uncle.  “We are glad that you have stepped up, that we might consult you as to the arrangements for giving effect to your very sporting challenge.”

“Whom am I to fight?” asked Jim, looking round at the company, who were now all upon their feet.

“Young man, you’ll know enough of who you ’ave to fight before you are through with it,” cried Berks, lurching heavily through the crowd.  “You’ll need a friend to swear to you before I’ve finished, d’ye see?”

Jim looked at him with disgust in every line of his face.

“Surely you are not going to set me to fight a drunken man!” said he.  “Where is Jem Belcher?”

“My name, young man.”

“I should be glad to try you, if I may.”

“You must work up to me, my lad.  You don’t take a ladder at one jump, but you do it rung by rung.  Show yourself to be a match for me, and I’ll give you a turn.”

“I’m much obliged to you.”

“And I like the look of you, and wish you well,” said Belcher, holding out his hand.  They were not unlike each other, either in face or figure, though the Bristol man was a few years the older, and a murmur of critical admiration was heard as the two tall, lithe figures, and keen, clean-cut faces were contrasted.

“Have you any choice where the fight takes place?” asked my uncle.

“I am in your hands, sir,” said Jim.

“Why not go round to the Five’s Court?” suggested Sir John Lade.

“Yes, let us go to the Five’s Court.”

But this did not at all suit the views of the landlord, who saw in this lucky incident a chance of reaping a fresh harvest from his spendthrift company.

“If it please you,” he cried, “there is no need to go so far.  My coach-house at the back of the yard is empty, and a better place for a mill you’ll never find.”

There was a general shout in favour of the coach-house, and those who were nearest the door began to slip through, in the hope of scouring the best places.  My stout neighbour, Bill Warr, pulled Harrison to one side.

“I’d stop it if I were you,” he whispered.

“I would if I could.  It’s no wish of mine that he should fight.  But there’s no turning him when once his mind is made up.”  All his own fights put together had never reduced the pugilist to such a state of agitation.