think of any other reason that might have persuaded him.
But marry her he did, and it stood to reason that when I was born I became a favourite of the old man. His daughter looked like him; I looked like my mother. We could all three have been pugilists. It was natural he would lean towards me: his look-alike .
So before we reconvened at the Exchequer Court on Monday it was only sensible that I spent the weekend down at Combe Park, hoping to tap the old man – again – for some financial assistance. But he’d heard rumours about my reckless gambling and was getting niggardly about the support he was called for. He gave me a lecture instead – as though I didn’t get enough of those from my father.
I wouldn’t have minded so much if my grandfather hadn’tbeen so well-known as a whist player, and had bet with the most extravagant in society, in his younger days.
However, my Sunday morning visit was unsuccessful and I came away empty-handed. So you’ll understand that I was more or less
forced
to go along to Hampstead Heath that Sunday afternoon , to see if I could make up for my dire financial state by placing a few perspicacious bets.
The occasion was a battle between two of the better-known fist men of the day … all but forgotten now, of course. One was a rather portly gentleman by the name of Porky Clark. Unsurprisingly, he’d once been a butcher. His opponent was Sam Martin, an ex-porter from Hythe who was suspected of eating raw meat before a fight to get used to the taste of blood – usually his own. His speciality was taking a beating for twenty rounds before nailing his opponent when the man got tired of the sport of hammering seven bells out of him.
In those days, what, forty years ago, pugilism depended very largely on aristocratic support, you understand. Prize fights were arranged by noble patrons who raised funds for the stakes and supported favourite boxers during training. Lord George Bentinck, naturally enough, was a member of the Pugilists Club that had been set up in 1814. The club established codes of conduct, hired gangs to keep order at the ropes and tried to keep purses modest, though the sums were bolstered by side stakes. It was where I was hoping to pick up some cash: supplementary stakes were arranged by the Fancy at the Castle Tavern and it was towards that establishment that I first directed my steps after leaving my grandfather: I placed a wager with the little available money I had among the usual company of aristocrats who were there rubbing shoulders with tradesmen, peers and pickpockets. I didn’t see Lord George there: nor did I have any wish to see him. But I was pretty sure he’d be at the Heath.
There was quite a crowd there, of course: Sunday afternoons on the Heath were a fixture during the summer months for thepugilistic fraternity. The police knew all about it of course and were supposed to intervene in the illegal pursuit, but the crowds were too big for their interference: they stayed on a little knoll some distance off, waiting for the inevitable riot that would accompany the almost guaranteed disputatious verdict.
Proceedings had already commenced within the ring when I arrived and I was gladly surprised to see that one of the two men sparring was none other than my acquaintance Lester Grenwood … who still owed me money against that accursed bill. Amateurs such as he often put on a show before the main event of the afternoon and Grenwood fancied himself with his fists but I knew him well enough to be aware that once his nose got bloodied, he’d retire. In the hope of grabbing a little quick return I placed a quick bet on his opponent, but got it wrong again. Within the first few minutes, after a bit of wary circling, Grenwood landed a quick one-two, struck a blow in his opponent’s kidneys and ended up with a fierce knee in the groin which brought water to everyone’s eyes. No Queensberry nonsense in these amateur bouts those days, you know.
The crowd
But marry her he did, and it stood to reason that when I was born I became a favourite of the old man. His daughter looked like him; I looked like my mother. We could all three have been pugilists. It was natural he would lean towards me: his look-alike .
So before we reconvened at the Exchequer Court on Monday it was only sensible that I spent the weekend down at Combe Park, hoping to tap the old man – again – for some financial assistance. But he’d heard rumours about my reckless gambling and was getting niggardly about the support he was called for. He gave me a lecture instead – as though I didn’t get enough of those from my father.
I wouldn’t have minded so much if my grandfather hadn’tbeen so well-known as a whist player, and had bet with the most extravagant in society, in his younger days.
However, my Sunday morning visit was unsuccessful and I came away empty-handed. So you’ll understand that I was more or less
forced
to go along to Hampstead Heath that Sunday afternoon , to see if I could make up for my dire financial state by placing a few perspicacious bets.
The occasion was a battle between two of the better-known fist men of the day … all but forgotten now, of course. One was a rather portly gentleman by the name of Porky Clark. Unsurprisingly, he’d once been a butcher. His opponent was Sam Martin, an ex-porter from Hythe who was suspected of eating raw meat before a fight to get used to the taste of blood – usually his own. His speciality was taking a beating for twenty rounds before nailing his opponent when the man got tired of the sport of hammering seven bells out of him.
In those days, what, forty years ago, pugilism depended very largely on aristocratic support, you understand. Prize fights were arranged by noble patrons who raised funds for the stakes and supported favourite boxers during training. Lord George Bentinck, naturally enough, was a member of the Pugilists Club that had been set up in 1814. The club established codes of conduct, hired gangs to keep order at the ropes and tried to keep purses modest, though the sums were bolstered by side stakes. It was where I was hoping to pick up some cash: supplementary stakes were arranged by the Fancy at the Castle Tavern and it was towards that establishment that I first directed my steps after leaving my grandfather: I placed a wager with the little available money I had among the usual company of aristocrats who were there rubbing shoulders with tradesmen, peers and pickpockets. I didn’t see Lord George there: nor did I have any wish to see him. But I was pretty sure he’d be at the Heath.
There was quite a crowd there, of course: Sunday afternoons on the Heath were a fixture during the summer months for thepugilistic fraternity. The police knew all about it of course and were supposed to intervene in the illegal pursuit, but the crowds were too big for their interference: they stayed on a little knoll some distance off, waiting for the inevitable riot that would accompany the almost guaranteed disputatious verdict.
Proceedings had already commenced within the ring when I arrived and I was gladly surprised to see that one of the two men sparring was none other than my acquaintance Lester Grenwood … who still owed me money against that accursed bill. Amateurs such as he often put on a show before the main event of the afternoon and Grenwood fancied himself with his fists but I knew him well enough to be aware that once his nose got bloodied, he’d retire. In the hope of grabbing a little quick return I placed a quick bet on his opponent, but got it wrong again. Within the first few minutes, after a bit of wary circling, Grenwood landed a quick one-two, struck a blow in his opponent’s kidneys and ended up with a fierce knee in the groin which brought water to everyone’s eyes. No Queensberry nonsense in these amateur bouts those days, you know.
The crowd
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