Pedro and Nick had started. Next to me Lord Francis was hopping up and down, yelling his encouragement.
‘At him, man! Go for him, sir!’ he shouted, failing miserably to keep in character. Fortunately, everyone was too engrossed in the fight to notice.
With sweat pouring from his brow, the Crusher struck out with another of the right hooks for which he was famed, but Syd leapt back, out ofharm’s way. The Crusher lost his balance and, before he could right himself, Syd came in with a blow to his jaw that sent the champion staggering. The Crusher collapsed to his knees, hands on the floor, breathing hard.
‘One! Two! Three!’ the crowd began to chant again.
‘Get up, you lazy oaf!’ screamed the Crusher’s second. ‘Get up, you good-for-nothing girl!’
But the Crusher swayed and then fell forward, the side of his face pressed against the floor, eyes glassy, a dribble of saliva trailing from his half-open mouth. He didn’t move. The second kicked him with his foot, trying to make him stir.
‘Twenty-eight! Twenty-nine! Thirty!’ bellowed the crowd.
The Crusher hadn’t moved.
A huge cheer went up. Even those who had lost their bets threw their hats in the air to applaud the plucky newcomer. Nick, Pedro, Lord Francis and I jumped up and down together and cheered with the best of them. Syd, bowing to each corner in turn, gave us a two-handed victory signal whenhe faced us. The Crusher’s second was not looking after his man. He was in a huddle with Syd’s father at the side of the stage. As they broke apart, he thrust a purse into the butcher’s fist and they gave each other a businesslike nod. Behind them, some friends of the Crusher had rushed into the ring to help the defeated boy to his feet. He did not look badly injured but he missed his stool completely when he went to sit down, ending up on the floor again.
The referee bounded over the prostrate body of the Crusher and raised Syd’s fist in the air.
‘Gents, we have a new champion. I give you the Bow Street Butcher!’
SCENE 4 . . . BILLY ‘BOIL’ SHEPHERD
‘Come on, let’s go and congratulate Syd,’ said Pedro eagerly as he launched himself against the tide of people now flowing away from the boxing ring.
Nick and Lord Francis ran after him. Being the last in line, I tried to follow but a party of gentlemen jumped from the ringside into my path, blocking my way.
‘Splendid fight!’ enthused a man in a black silk hat as he leapt heavily down, practically flattening me as he did so.
‘A rare talent, that butcher,’ commented his friend. ‘Perhaps I should ask cook to get the meat from him in future . . . show some support.’
‘Or perhaps not,’ said the other, already laughing in anticipation of his own witticism. ‘You don’t know what he does with the ones he knocks out cold. Chop, chop! Meat pies, sir?’
The gentlemen both laughed raucously. Iglared at them and tried to push past, annoyed that they could imply anything so cruel about Syd. The grey-haired man must have noticed me trying to squeeze between them for he looked down and automatically clapped his hand to his watch chain.
‘We’d better get back to the club,’ he murmured to his companion. ‘This place is rife with pickpockets, they say.’
The pair pushed past me, knocking me backwards into another bystander. I had no time to be offended for I now found myself buffeted to the ground by the person I had been thrown against.
‘Watch where you’re goin’, Tiddler,’ he jeered.
I knew that voice. I kept my head down, eyes trained on the steel caps of his boots, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately for me, some of my hair had escaped from the back of my cap.
‘’Ere, wot’s this?’ he crowed with delight. I was seized by the shoulder and pulled to my feet. ‘Well, well, a little pussycat pretendin’ to be a tom.’
A hand snatched the cap from my head, letting my hair tumble over my face. I pushed it out of my eyes and looked furiously up
‘At him, man! Go for him, sir!’ he shouted, failing miserably to keep in character. Fortunately, everyone was too engrossed in the fight to notice.
With sweat pouring from his brow, the Crusher struck out with another of the right hooks for which he was famed, but Syd leapt back, out ofharm’s way. The Crusher lost his balance and, before he could right himself, Syd came in with a blow to his jaw that sent the champion staggering. The Crusher collapsed to his knees, hands on the floor, breathing hard.
‘One! Two! Three!’ the crowd began to chant again.
‘Get up, you lazy oaf!’ screamed the Crusher’s second. ‘Get up, you good-for-nothing girl!’
But the Crusher swayed and then fell forward, the side of his face pressed against the floor, eyes glassy, a dribble of saliva trailing from his half-open mouth. He didn’t move. The second kicked him with his foot, trying to make him stir.
‘Twenty-eight! Twenty-nine! Thirty!’ bellowed the crowd.
The Crusher hadn’t moved.
A huge cheer went up. Even those who had lost their bets threw their hats in the air to applaud the plucky newcomer. Nick, Pedro, Lord Francis and I jumped up and down together and cheered with the best of them. Syd, bowing to each corner in turn, gave us a two-handed victory signal whenhe faced us. The Crusher’s second was not looking after his man. He was in a huddle with Syd’s father at the side of the stage. As they broke apart, he thrust a purse into the butcher’s fist and they gave each other a businesslike nod. Behind them, some friends of the Crusher had rushed into the ring to help the defeated boy to his feet. He did not look badly injured but he missed his stool completely when he went to sit down, ending up on the floor again.
The referee bounded over the prostrate body of the Crusher and raised Syd’s fist in the air.
‘Gents, we have a new champion. I give you the Bow Street Butcher!’
SCENE 4 . . . BILLY ‘BOIL’ SHEPHERD
‘Come on, let’s go and congratulate Syd,’ said Pedro eagerly as he launched himself against the tide of people now flowing away from the boxing ring.
Nick and Lord Francis ran after him. Being the last in line, I tried to follow but a party of gentlemen jumped from the ringside into my path, blocking my way.
‘Splendid fight!’ enthused a man in a black silk hat as he leapt heavily down, practically flattening me as he did so.
‘A rare talent, that butcher,’ commented his friend. ‘Perhaps I should ask cook to get the meat from him in future . . . show some support.’
‘Or perhaps not,’ said the other, already laughing in anticipation of his own witticism. ‘You don’t know what he does with the ones he knocks out cold. Chop, chop! Meat pies, sir?’
The gentlemen both laughed raucously. Iglared at them and tried to push past, annoyed that they could imply anything so cruel about Syd. The grey-haired man must have noticed me trying to squeeze between them for he looked down and automatically clapped his hand to his watch chain.
‘We’d better get back to the club,’ he murmured to his companion. ‘This place is rife with pickpockets, they say.’
The pair pushed past me, knocking me backwards into another bystander. I had no time to be offended for I now found myself buffeted to the ground by the person I had been thrown against.
‘Watch where you’re goin’, Tiddler,’ he jeered.
I knew that voice. I kept my head down, eyes trained on the steel caps of his boots, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Unfortunately for me, some of my hair had escaped from the back of my cap.
‘’Ere, wot’s this?’ he crowed with delight. I was seized by the shoulder and pulled to my feet. ‘Well, well, a little pussycat pretendin’ to be a tom.’
A hand snatched the cap from my head, letting my hair tumble over my face. I pushed it out of my eyes and looked furiously up
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