“Ah! tell us,” chimed the rest.

“Well,” said the bullet-headed man, stooping to blow the froth from his ale, “it was arter I beat Jack Nolan of Brummagem.  The Prince ‘e come a-runnin’ to me ’e did, as I sat in my corner a-workin’ at a loose tusk.  ‘Tom,’ ’e says, ‘Tom, you be a wonder.’  ’I done Jack Nolan up proper I think, your ‘Ighness,’ says I.  ‘Tom,’ says ‘e, wi’ tears in ’is eyes, ’you ‘ave; an’ if I ’ad my way,’ says ’e, ‘I’d make you Prime Minister to-morrer!’ ’e says.  An’ slapped me on the back ‘e did, wi’ ’is merry own ‘and, an’ likewise gave me this ’ere pin,” saying which, he pointed to a flaming diamond horseshoe which he wore stuck through his neckerchief.  The stones were extremely large and handsome, looking very much out of place on the fellow’s rough person, and seemed in some part to bear out his story.  Though, indeed, as regarded his association with the Prince Regent, whose tastes were at all times peculiar (to say the least), and whose love for “the fancy” was notorious, I thought it, on the whole, very probable; for despite Craggy’s words, foolishly blatant though they sounded, there was about him in his low, retreating brow, his small, deep-set eyes, his great square jowl and heavy chin, a certain air there was no mistaking.  I also noticed that the upper half of one ear was unduly thick and swollen, which is a mark (I believe) of the professional pugilist alone.

“Tom,” cried the one-eyed man, “wot’s all this we heerd of Ted Jarraway of Swansea bein’ knocked out in five rounds by this ’ere Lord Vibbot, up in London?”

“Vibbot?” repeated Cragg, frowning into his tankard, “I ’aven’t ’eard of no Vibbot, neither lord, earl, nor dook.”

“Come, Tom,” coaxed the other, “everybody’s heerd o’ Buck Vibbot, ’im they calls the ‘Fightin’ Barronite.’”

“If,” said Cragg, rolling his bullet-head, “if you was to ask me who put Ted Jarraway to sleep, I should answer you, Sir Maurice Vibart, commonly called ‘Buck’ Vibart; an’ it took ten rounds to do it, not five.”

As may be expected, at this mention of my cousin’s name I pricked up my ears.

“And what’s all this ’bout him ‘putting out’ Tom Cragg, in three?” At this there was a sudden silence and all eyes were turned towards the speaker, a small, red-headed fellow, with a truculent eye.  “Come,” said he, blowing out a cloud of tobacco smoke, “in three rounds!  What d’ye say to that now, come?”

Cragg had started up in his chair and now sat scowling at his inquisitor open-mouthed; and in the hush I could hear the ticking of the clock in the corner, and the crackle of the logs upon the hearth.  Then, all at once, Cragg’s pipe shivered to fragments on the floor and he leapt to his feet.  In one stride, as it seemed, he reached the speaker, who occupied the corner opposite mine, but, even as he raised his fist, he checked himself before the pocket-pistol which the other held levelled across the table.