howled loudly – though not as loud as Lester’s opponent writhing on the ground and clutching at his precious jewels. It was clear the fight was over. I was still making a hasty agreement with my creditor by way of a piece of paper, when Lester Grenwood came through the throng with a towel around his neck and a broad smile on his face. He had his arm around the shoulders of his Hussar friend Crosier Hilliard. As he was wiping the sweat from his handsome features with the scruffy-looking towel he caught sight of me. He raised a triumphant hand.
‘James! How about that, then! Did you see that right of mine? And that trick with the knee?’
Crosier Hilliard whooped. ‘Hope you had your money on the right man, James!’
‘If not the right horse,’ Grenwood shouted gleefully. ‘See you got nailed in court too, the other day, in the
Running Rein
business ,’he crowed. ‘The papers are full of it! Produce the nag, hey? Does Alderson really expect that to happen? Draggin’ a horse into the courtroom? It’s got all London by the heels!’
Slightly annoyed, as well as to some extent gratified, I countered , ‘And how’s that little dollymop of yours? She got
you
by the heels yet?’
He was too delighted with his pugilistic success to be offended. ‘Sweet Harriet, you mean? She’ll have long since gone back to her countryside pursuits. Talking of which, James, Hilliard and I have got a little party going on tonight down at Swanscombe and if you want to join in, stop being such a dull dog and—’
‘I’ve got the hearing Monday morning,’ I cut in, shaking my head dolefully. ‘Got preparations to undertake. But talking of
Running Rein
, what with the sum you owe me and those bets you laid off for me—’
‘Ha, don’t worry old friend. Keep fleet of foot and they won’t catch up with you for a week or so. Besides, the tin you’ll get from this
Running Rein
brief of yours should keep them wolves from the door, hey?’ He hugged Hilliard, and pulled at the man’s whiskers. ‘Away then, Crosier, let’s to the fleshpots!’
I put out a hand to detain him but, flushed in the face, he was being dragged away by Hilliard in the midst of a congratulatory group of successful punters, eager to express their appreciation and admiration for him in a local tavern. Disgruntled, I made my way around the fringe of the restless crowd, waiting for the main event of the afternoon. I could see Porky Clark limbering up chewing on a half-cooked steak and glugging a bottle of beer, all white, hairy, scarred flesh and chunky jowls. His opponent Sam Martin was across the other side of the rope barrier, stripping off: he was taller, almost ten years younger than Porky, carried less fat, and had the scarred, bristle-featured look of a man who intended bloody business. Porky was going to be no match for him that day.
I watched the two men as they completed their preparations and then undertook another judicious bet, on credit, of course. And received some more wigging from various acquaintances on the
Running Rein
business. After which I edged my way into the crowd, shouldered my way close to the ropes, to see how Porky shaped up to Sam Martin.
You know, I always regarded myself as an acknowledged expert on horseflesh, bare-knuckle fighters, and women. Mind you, I don’t know that I ever made any money on a pugilistic encounter. Not even when I was acting as manager of John C. Heenan, when he was champion of the world. You didn’t know about that stage in my career? I’ll get around to telling you about it, in due time. But Heenan, I
should
have made some tin out of him, particularly when I came back from New York with him in tow, fixed him the challenge fight of the century with Tom Sayers in Ireland, only for Heenan to pull out at the last moment. To get
married
, by all that’s holy!. But then, to be fair, what a woman! It’s Adah Mencken I’m talking about. The sensation of the New York and European stage. … Now I
‘James! How about that, then! Did you see that right of mine? And that trick with the knee?’
Crosier Hilliard whooped. ‘Hope you had your money on the right man, James!’
‘If not the right horse,’ Grenwood shouted gleefully. ‘See you got nailed in court too, the other day, in the
Running Rein
business ,’he crowed. ‘The papers are full of it! Produce the nag, hey? Does Alderson really expect that to happen? Draggin’ a horse into the courtroom? It’s got all London by the heels!’
Slightly annoyed, as well as to some extent gratified, I countered , ‘And how’s that little dollymop of yours? She got
you
by the heels yet?’
He was too delighted with his pugilistic success to be offended. ‘Sweet Harriet, you mean? She’ll have long since gone back to her countryside pursuits. Talking of which, James, Hilliard and I have got a little party going on tonight down at Swanscombe and if you want to join in, stop being such a dull dog and—’
‘I’ve got the hearing Monday morning,’ I cut in, shaking my head dolefully. ‘Got preparations to undertake. But talking of
Running Rein
, what with the sum you owe me and those bets you laid off for me—’
‘Ha, don’t worry old friend. Keep fleet of foot and they won’t catch up with you for a week or so. Besides, the tin you’ll get from this
Running Rein
brief of yours should keep them wolves from the door, hey?’ He hugged Hilliard, and pulled at the man’s whiskers. ‘Away then, Crosier, let’s to the fleshpots!’
I put out a hand to detain him but, flushed in the face, he was being dragged away by Hilliard in the midst of a congratulatory group of successful punters, eager to express their appreciation and admiration for him in a local tavern. Disgruntled, I made my way around the fringe of the restless crowd, waiting for the main event of the afternoon. I could see Porky Clark limbering up chewing on a half-cooked steak and glugging a bottle of beer, all white, hairy, scarred flesh and chunky jowls. His opponent Sam Martin was across the other side of the rope barrier, stripping off: he was taller, almost ten years younger than Porky, carried less fat, and had the scarred, bristle-featured look of a man who intended bloody business. Porky was going to be no match for him that day.
I watched the two men as they completed their preparations and then undertook another judicious bet, on credit, of course. And received some more wigging from various acquaintances on the
Running Rein
business. After which I edged my way into the crowd, shouldered my way close to the ropes, to see how Porky shaped up to Sam Martin.
You know, I always regarded myself as an acknowledged expert on horseflesh, bare-knuckle fighters, and women. Mind you, I don’t know that I ever made any money on a pugilistic encounter. Not even when I was acting as manager of John C. Heenan, when he was champion of the world. You didn’t know about that stage in my career? I’ll get around to telling you about it, in due time. But Heenan, I
should
have made some tin out of him, particularly when I came back from New York with him in tow, fixed him the challenge fight of the century with Tom Sayers in Ireland, only for Heenan to pull out at the last moment. To get
married
, by all that’s holy!. But then, to be fair, what a woman! It’s Adah Mencken I’m talking about. The sensation of the New York and European stage. … Now I
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