The Detective Wore Silk Drawers Read Online Free PDF Page B

his hands wasn’t consistent with glove fighting of any sort. Besides, the fighters there have too strong a following. Regular clientele. You couldn’t drop one of them off Waterloo Bridge without someone raising a barney. Now this little set-to here is a far likelier invitation to violence. Crowd out from London, more set on placing a pretty bet than following a pug’s fortunes. Meanix may be known to a few, but who’d miss him if he dropped dead here in front of us? None of this mob is going to report the fact. You don’t risk prosecution to report the passing of a knuckle fighter who means no more to you than a guinea at five to one.”
    The pleasure of anticipation was perceptibly waning among the spectators. With the initial stakes placed, the betting could not hold much interest until Meanix’s opponent appeared. They took to looking about them, examining their neighbours, half expecting anyone of better-than-average build to disrobe and duck under the ropes. Cribb nudged young Jago, winked and tilted his head fractionally towards the vacant corner. Thackeray noticed this, and saw the flash of momentary uncertainty in the Constable’s eyes. The Sergeant had found a new subject for his dubious wit.
    In the ring even Meanix was betraying unease. He crossed his arms to massage his biceps, searching the faces of the crowd who stood near.
    “Here they come!” The general mutterings stopped. Three riders approached at a canter across the field, raising a small mist of water vapour from the saturated turf. The interest shifted from Meanix to the newcomers. Volunteers ran forward to hold the horses as they were reined, steaming, some distance from the ring. The riders dismounted, a dandified figure in ulster, black boots and top hat, and two younger men, massively built, one a Negro. He began to strip.
    “Seven to four against the Ebony!” shouted a bookie, and the betting resumed in earnest.
    “He’ll be the local champion,” Cribb explained. “The challenger is Meanix. He had to toss his cap into the ring first.”
    “The betting goes with Meanix, even so,” remarked Thackeray. “He carries too much top hamper for the Ebony to fell him.”
    “We’ll see.”
    A minute or so later the Ebony joined the Ox in the ring, bare-chested, and in striking white boxing drawers fastened at mid-calf level. His swarthy muscularity drew whistles of genuine admiration from the ringside. If Meanix was an ox, here was a panther.
    Now to a riot of abuse and booing, Meanix’s two attendants ducked under the rope and reported to the referee, a pale man in muffler and cap who had appeared from nowhere. He seemed well enough known, and proved to be a Rainham innkeeper. The weighings, he announced, to those who could hear, had shown a stone and a quarter in favour of Meanix at fourteen stone seven. Were the colours in position?
    The larger of the Ebony’s attendants hustled forward with a square of black silk, which he tied above Meanix’s scarlet kerchief on one of the centre stakes. A toss was made for corners. Meanix selected the one his attendants had already claimed.
    “Will seconds and bottleholders now withdraw?”
    Even the referee left the ring.
    “Time.”
    They walked to the centre and crossed hands, glowering menace at each other.
    “Go to it, Ox,” bawled a bystander.
    The fight began.
    The shifting mass of umbrellas and hats surrounding the small square of green jerked to stillness. It crystallized into hundreds of faces, regularly spaced, each distinct in character.
    Every moustache, beard, cigar came into focus. Every eye was fastened on the pugilists. They, firm in the classical stance, faced each other, probing the space between them with hard-clenched fists. For a time the impact of rain on umbrella silk was almost the only sound. Then, with the preliminary measuring up complete, the patrons began to demand action.
    Meanix ventured a left arm, the Ebony swayed out of range, and shouts of encouragement