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one of the Duke of York’s closest friends, and a great patron of the ring. Did Peregrine see that stoutish man with the crooked shoulder approaching Jackson? That was Lord Sefton, a capital fellow! And there, over to the right, was Captain Barclay, talking to Sir Watkin Williams Wynne, who was always to be seen at every fight. Mr. Fitzjohn fancied that none of the Royal Dukes was present; he could not see them, though he had heard that Old Tarry Breeks—Clarence, of course—was expected to be there.
    Peregrine drank it all in, feeling very humble and ignorant. In Yorkshire he had been used to know everyone and be known everywhere, but it was evident that in London circles it was different. Beverley Hall and the Taverner fortune counted for nothing; he was only an unknown provincial here.
    Mr. Fitzjohn produced an enormous turnip watch from his pocket and consulted it. “It’s after twelve,” he announced. “If the magistrates have got wind of this and mean to stop it it will be a damned hum!”
    But just at that moment some cheering, not unmixed with catcalls and a few derisive shouts, was set up, and Tom Molyneux, accompanied by his seconds, Bill Richmond, the Black, and Bill Gibbons, arbiter of sport, came up to the ring.
    “He looks a strong fellow,” said Peregrine, anxiously scrutinising as much as he could see of the negro for the enveloping folds of his greatcoat.
    “Weighs something between thirteen and fourteen stone,” said Mr. Fitzjohn knowledgeably. “They say he loses his temper. You weren’t at the fight last year? No, of course you weren’t: I was forgetting. Well, y’know it was bad, very bad. The crowd booed him. Don’t know why, for they don’t boo at Richmond and he’s a Black, too. I daresay it was just from everyone’s wanting Cribb to win. But it was not at all the thing, and made the Black think he had not been fairly treated, though that was all my eye and Betty Martin, of course. Cribb is the better man, best fighter I ever saw in my life.”
    “Did you ever see Belcher?” asked Peregrine.
    “Well, no,” admitted Mr. Fitzjohn regretfully. “Before my time, you know, though I did have the chance of being at his last fight, a couple of years ago, when he was beaten by Cribb. But I don’t know that I’m sorry I missed it. They say he was past it and then, of course, there was his eye—he only had one then, you know. My father says there was never a boxer to come near him in his day. Always remember my father telling me how he was at Wimbledon when Belcher knocked Gamble out in five rounds. Fight only lasted seven minutes. There were twenty thousand people there to see it. My father told me how the ring was within sight of the gibbet, and all the while they could hear Jerry Abershaw, who was hanging there in chains, creaking every time the wind caught him. Holla, this looks like business! There’s old Gibbons tying his man’s colours to the ropes. Crimson and orange, you see. Cribb sports the old blue bird’s eye. Ha, there’s John Gully! Cribb must have arrived! Who is his bottle-holder, I wonder? They’ll be throwing their castors in the ring any moment now. Cribb was lying at the Blue Bull on Witham Common last night, and I believe Molyneux was at the Ram Jam. Can’t make out why they’re behind time. Lord, listen to them cheering! That must be Cribb sure enough! Yes, there he goes! He has Joe Ward with him. He must be his bottle-holder. Looks to be in fine feather, don’t he? I’ve laid a monkey on him, and another he gives the first knock-down. The only thing is that he is slow. No denying it. But excellent bottom, never shy at all.”
    The Champion’s hat had been tossed into the ring by now, and he had followed it, and was acknowledging with a broad smile, and a wave of his hand, the cheers and yells of encouragement that greeted him. He was an inch and a half taller than the Black, a heavy-looking fighter, but neat on his feet. He did indeed look to be in fine