Rivals in the City Read Online Free PDF Page A

drink, upended the tankard and stood on it for a better sightline. He hid a smile. He was a fool to worry about her so incessantly, a greater fool to accompany her here. He seemed doomed to foolishness where she was concerned.
    It was difficult to see where Mr Ching might be coming from, for the room was so tightly packed that it was nearly impossible to budge. Finally, however, he spotted a ripple of movement begin at the far corner of the room: men turning, their wide-open mouths contorting in a nightmare display of dental neglect. Slowly, unhurriedly even, a black head bobbed through the crowd, picking its way towards the centre of the room – with resistance, James noted. Mr Ching stood a little below average height and he was being prodded and shoved and goaded by the feverish crowd.
    At long last, he arrived in the relative safety of the ring, and James released a breath of relief he’d not known he was holding. Mr Ching was not thin, precisely, but lacked the squat, heavy musculature one expected of a pugilist. He looked steadily downwards, ignoring the hundred or so men screaming filth at him. He was dressed in ordinary worker’s fustian. James felt oddly disappointed; he’d expected the loose, silken Chinese costume of the illustration.
    “Mr Ching!” boomed the impresario.
    The Chinese man raised his chin. In that moment, James felt Mary tense beside him. He couldn’t see her face – she stood slightly further forward than he – but it was obvious from the curve of her neck, the tension in her shoulders, that she was struggling with strong emotion. He suppressed the impulse to stroke her back, pull her close. Instead, he forced himself to look at Mr Ching.
    The prizefighter’s face was a clean-shaven oval, with prominent cheekbones and slightly wide-set eyes. He wore his hair cut severely short, like a sailor. His expression was difficult to read: calm, certainly, and somewhat disdainful as well. Or perhaps it was an excellent mask, and inside he was quaking.
    “Lordy, he’s a runt,” said one of the men in front of them. “If I’d of known he was only the size of a dog’s fart, I’d of fought him myself, for an extra pound.”
    “You’re better saving yourself for tomorrow night’s fight,” his friend advised him. “I seen some Chinamen fight, once. He may be little, but he’ll have some sneaky tricks up his sleeve.”
    James hoped they were right.
    The room was a cesspit of aggression – verbal, physical, emotional – all of it directed at Ching. He gave no sign of awareness, merely gazed into the middle distance, acknowledging no one. Only when the announcer bawled did he seem to hear, turning towards the man with mild-mannered politesse.
    “Mr Ching, you claim to have great skill as a fighter! Is that so?”
    A small, formal nod.
    “And you are here tonight to challenge this great nation of England?”
    Another nod.
    “You have agreed to fight three matches, one after the other! Is that correct?”
    Nod.
    “And you swear to fight unarmed?”
    Nod.
    “Mr Ching, I must ask you this: ARE YOU MAD?” roared the announcer, throwing his arms open for the audience to reply, too.
    The faintest of smiles, followed by a shake of the head.
    “Blimey, if he ain’t mad, he’s a fool,” muttered someone behind James.
    “Very well, then!” crowed the announcer. “Let us make history!” He gestured towards a corner of the room again. “Mr Ching, meet your first challenger: the pride of Dagenham, a heavyweight fighter from the age of fifteen, a man who’d sooner knock out his father as shake his hand, Mr Jem Hoskins!”
    The crowd bellowed and hooted its approval, parting to make a path for the tall, fair-haired young man who stalked towards the ring. He had a thick neck, a face that had clearly suffered many beatings in the past and an ugly scowl. He, too, wore the everyday clothes of a labourer, but on him they seemed part of his skin, his natural covering. He made Ching’s very similar