“Wait on ’im yourself, then, and chuck up the sponge when things begin to go wrong.  You know Joe Berks’s record?”

“He’s since my time.”

“Well, ’e’s a terror, that’s all.  It’s only Belcher that can master ’im.  You see the man for yourself, six foot, fourteen stone, and full of the devil.  Belcher’s beat ’im twice, but the second time ’e ’ad all ’is work to do it.”

“Well, well, we’ve got to go through with it.  You’ve not seen Boy Jim put his mawleys up, or maybe you’d think better of his chances.  When he was short of sixteen he licked the Cock of the South Downs, and he’s come on a long way since then.”

The company was swarming through the door and clattering down the stair, so we followed in the stream.  A fine rain was falling, and the yellow lights from the windows glistened upon the wet cobblestones of the yard.  How welcome was that breath of sweet, damp air after the fetid atmosphere of the supper-room.  At the other end of the yard was an open door sharply outlined by the gleam of lanterns within, and through this they poured, amateurs and fighting-men jostling each other in their eagerness to get to the front.  For my own part, being a smallish man, I should have seen nothing had I not found an upturned bucket in a corner, upon which I perched myself with the wall at my back.

It was a large room with a wooden floor and an open square in the ceiling, which was fringed with the heads of the ostlers and stable boys who were looking down from the harness-room above.  A carriage-lamp was slung in each corner, and a very large stable-lantern hung from a rafter in the centre.  A coil of rope had been brought in, and under the direction of Jackson four men had been stationed to hold it.

“What space do you give them?” asked my uncle.

“Twenty-four, as they are both big ones, sir.”

“Very good, and half-minutes between rounds, I suppose?  I’ll umpire if Sir Lothian Hume will do the same, and you can hold the watch and referee, Jackson.”

With great speed and exactness every preparation was rapidly made by these experienced men.  Mendoza and Dutch Sam were commissioned to attend to Berks, while Belcher and Jack Harrison did the same for Boy Jim.  Sponges, towels, and some brandy in a bladder were passed over the heads of the crowd for the use of the seconds.

“Here’s our man,” cried Belcher.  “Come along, Berks, or we’ll go to fetch you.”

Jim appeared in the ring stripped to the waist, with a coloured handkerchief tied round his middle.  A shout of admiration came from the spectators as they looked upon the fine lines of his figure, and I found myself roaring with the rest.  His shoulders were sloping rather than bulky, and his chest was deep rather than broad, but the muscle was all in the right place, rippling down in long, low curves from neck to shoulder, and from shoulder to elbow.  His work at the anvil had developed his arms to their utmost, and his healthy country living gave a sleek gloss to his ivory skin, which shone in the lamplight.  His expression was full of spirit and confidence, and he wore a grim sort of half-smile which I had seen many a time in our boyhood, and which meant, I knew, that his pride had set iron hard, and that his senses would fail him long before his courage.