lost money on her too: she had cost me the security of my first marriage … but I’m digressing again. I’ll tell you about that later.
To put it shortly, you need to know that it was age, if not beauty, that did for Sam Martin that day on Hampstead Heath. At least, that’s what the sporting press said next day. The fact is Sam Martin didn’t seem up to his usual cunning tactics: he took the blows but he seemed slow, sluggish, not as aggressive as he was reputed to be. There looked to be no weight in his slugging hand; his legs seemed rubbery from the start and there was a vacant glare in his eyes that made it seem as though he was somewhere else than the Heath. And there was no sign of the usual comeback when the fight was far advanced. Anyway, in the eighteenth round, as the blood was spattering the bawling mob around the ropes Porky Clark laid one on him, high on the temple, and poor Sam went down and according to someaccounts I read later in the sporting press didn’t wake for a week. He never did regain control of his speech after that, now I come to think of it. Not that he ever had anything particularly interesting to say.
It wasn’t a good day for Sam Martin, but it was worse for me – first my grandfather hadn’t come through with anything other than a homily, I’d lost some ready by betting against Lester Grenwood, and now Porky Clark had done for me with his right fist.
It was time for me to make myself scarce. The disaffected crowd was breaking up into a few isolated battles as they disputed the legitimacy of the verdict … even though Sam Martin was still stretched unconscious on the muddied sward, but I avoided them easily enough. I pushed and barged my way through the sweating supporters, avoiding the eyes of the bookmakers I dealt with, and saw the peelers beginning to come down from their hill to separate some of the more violent squabbles . There were a few hansom cabs waiting on the road that fringed the Heath and I headed for them. Before I reached them however, I noted there was some kind of celebration going on near the bushes adjoining the highway, just behind the line of cabs. A couple of hats were knocked off, thrown in the air, and there was a degree of shouting. The unusual thing was that no great crowd had gathered, just a small group of the swell mob.
I thought I caught a glimpse of none other than Lewis Goodman among them before I turned aside, began to fight my way past a noisy group heading for the nearest tavern. It was then that I observed one man who stood watching the celebrating group, his back to me: there was something rural about him, a stocky, broad-shouldered fellow with a mass of red hair and muddy boots. His hands were on his hips, but his fists were clenched, and his head was lowered like a threatening bull. I glanced at him curiously. He was clearly in an angry, dangerous mood; he stared after the small group of whooping revellers,then slowly walked after them. His gait was stiff-legged: he reminded me just then of a belligerent fight dog, a bull mastiff entering the ring.
But it was none of my business. At least, I thought so at the time.
I reached the cabs, negotiated a price, and by supper time I was back in town. Still almost penniless.
I met my leading counsel, Alexander Cockburn, during breakfast at the Inn on the Monday morning. Like me he had spent a thoughtful weekend. Since his early struggles on the West Country circuit Cockburn had become much sought after by London solicitors and the briefs that were brought to his chambers were numerous. He could afford to pick and choose but it was clear to me from his demeanour over our kidneys and steak that during the weekend he had thought deeply about
Wood v Peel
and he was beginning to consider that he had chosen badly with the
Running Rein
case. It was always likely to be a
cause célèbre
, and I’ve no doubt that had attracted him for Cockburn enjoyed the limelight and was a sporting man by
To put it shortly, you need to know that it was age, if not beauty, that did for Sam Martin that day on Hampstead Heath. At least, that’s what the sporting press said next day. The fact is Sam Martin didn’t seem up to his usual cunning tactics: he took the blows but he seemed slow, sluggish, not as aggressive as he was reputed to be. There looked to be no weight in his slugging hand; his legs seemed rubbery from the start and there was a vacant glare in his eyes that made it seem as though he was somewhere else than the Heath. And there was no sign of the usual comeback when the fight was far advanced. Anyway, in the eighteenth round, as the blood was spattering the bawling mob around the ropes Porky Clark laid one on him, high on the temple, and poor Sam went down and according to someaccounts I read later in the sporting press didn’t wake for a week. He never did regain control of his speech after that, now I come to think of it. Not that he ever had anything particularly interesting to say.
It wasn’t a good day for Sam Martin, but it was worse for me – first my grandfather hadn’t come through with anything other than a homily, I’d lost some ready by betting against Lester Grenwood, and now Porky Clark had done for me with his right fist.
It was time for me to make myself scarce. The disaffected crowd was breaking up into a few isolated battles as they disputed the legitimacy of the verdict … even though Sam Martin was still stretched unconscious on the muddied sward, but I avoided them easily enough. I pushed and barged my way through the sweating supporters, avoiding the eyes of the bookmakers I dealt with, and saw the peelers beginning to come down from their hill to separate some of the more violent squabbles . There were a few hansom cabs waiting on the road that fringed the Heath and I headed for them. Before I reached them however, I noted there was some kind of celebration going on near the bushes adjoining the highway, just behind the line of cabs. A couple of hats were knocked off, thrown in the air, and there was a degree of shouting. The unusual thing was that no great crowd had gathered, just a small group of the swell mob.
I thought I caught a glimpse of none other than Lewis Goodman among them before I turned aside, began to fight my way past a noisy group heading for the nearest tavern. It was then that I observed one man who stood watching the celebrating group, his back to me: there was something rural about him, a stocky, broad-shouldered fellow with a mass of red hair and muddy boots. His hands were on his hips, but his fists were clenched, and his head was lowered like a threatening bull. I glanced at him curiously. He was clearly in an angry, dangerous mood; he stared after the small group of whooping revellers,then slowly walked after them. His gait was stiff-legged: he reminded me just then of a belligerent fight dog, a bull mastiff entering the ring.
But it was none of my business. At least, I thought so at the time.
I reached the cabs, negotiated a price, and by supper time I was back in town. Still almost penniless.
I met my leading counsel, Alexander Cockburn, during breakfast at the Inn on the Monday morning. Like me he had spent a thoughtful weekend. Since his early struggles on the West Country circuit Cockburn had become much sought after by London solicitors and the briefs that were brought to his chambers were numerous. He could afford to pick and choose but it was clear to me from his demeanour over our kidneys and steak that during the weekend he had thought deeply about
Wood v Peel
and he was beginning to consider that he had chosen badly with the
Running Rein
case. It was always likely to be a
cause célèbre
, and I’ve no doubt that had attracted him for Cockburn enjoyed the limelight and was a sporting man by
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