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cully would his wife. He was much the same over me. Whichever of the other two came to fetch me, Mr Dryer was always with them. When the culls in the crowd thrust nips of gin into my hands, Mr Dryer took them from me without a word and passed them to his friends. He let me drink cider, ale and sometimes wine. When a sailor turned lech on me one day and reached beneath the ropes to stroke my ankle, Mr Dryer took the man aside and spoke to him seriously. I near died when this same rough sailor came afterward to beg my pardon, and said he’d not bother me again. All this and yet Mr Dryer barely ever spoke a word to me unless it was to bid me follow him, or call me to come up to scratch.
    After that first bout against the butcher’s boy, I went to bed only a little bruised up but I woke dizzy and sick from the hits to the skull. I thought I’d a fever, I was so bad. My hands were so stiff they’d scarce close, and the skin on my face was grazed, where his knuckles had slid across my sweating cheek. I’d no notion how much pain was to be had from my giving a lad a thrashing, and his half-missed blows upon me. I learned to expect it all soon enough, and I learned that it passed. I never would grow used to the shock of the full-facer – all you feel is speed and weight and surprise, and all the other ills come later – but I learned how fast I could be, when I’d a need to. I found that Mr Dryer would stop a bout if he feared me too injured. That’s not to say I wasn’t left beat, but there was always talk about this or that pug who’d died, gasping up blood with his last words. Mr Dryer wouldn’t let that befall me; he’d guard me as he would his purse.
    In a place like The Hatchet, near as important as winning was having bottom; this was the fancy’s word for courage so deep it runs close to lunacy. I stood up against anyone they brought me and never backed down even when I knew I’d take a beating. I fought a sailor with only one foot, who grabbed me by my hair and wouldn’t leave off, however the crowd screamed ‘Coward’. I fought a lad even littler than I, who looked over at a cull in the crowd – his daddy, I supposed – every time he made a hit on me. I used that to my benefit and fibbed him in the eye the next time he turned his head. I fought girls bigger than Dora, thick-armed washerwomen who knocked me off my pins as fast as I’d have done an infant. I fought brats my own size till we were both so weary all we could do was lean against each other at the scratch and hear the crowd cry, ‘Shame’. I stood up against grown men and the fancy who gathered to watch only laughed and cheered. A little girl up against a big swinging cull is as diverting as a dog against a bear, and if the puppy gets a bite in, so much the better.
    I learned, the first time I was really beat, that it was better to mind what Ma told me and go back to the ring, than try to stay at home in the convent. Once you’ve stood in front of a woman like Ma, a one-footed sailor looks like a fairy. I begged to be allowed a holiday and she gave me a beating I swear home I can still feel if I close my eyes. The next time I came home so battered I’d have liked to have slept a good week away, I got up and took myself back to The Hatchet as soon as she bid me, with never a whimper aloud.
    In any case, I was happier in the ring than at home, whatever the price in bruises and cracked teeth. I had bottom and all the fancy cheered me for it. I’d never in my life been cheered before – no one had ever had cause to celebrate me. The fancy called me ‘Miss Matchet’ and declared I was match for anyone. They called me a real pug, which I’d never heard a girl called before. When I walked down the street, folks called out to me and begged me to show my arm, or make a fist. It was the happiest time of my life. Soon enough the culls in The Hatchet knew me so well that not one of them would try to get his hand up my dress any more, for all the