“By Jove, I’d take him on myself if my position was different,” said the Prince, whose face was growing redder and his eyes more glazed. “You’ve seen me with the mufflers, Jackson! You know my form!”
“I’ve seen your Royal Highness, and I have felt your Royal Highness,” said the courtly Jackson.
“Perhaps Jem Belcher would give us an exhibition,” said my uncle.
Belcher smiled and shook his handsome head.
“There’s my brother Tom here has never been blooded in London yet, sir. He might make a fairer match of it.”
“Give him over to me!” roared Joe Berks. “I’ve been waitin’ for a turn all evenin’, an’ I’ll fight any man that tries to take my place. ’E’s my meat, my masters. Leave ’im to me if you want to see ’ow a calf’s ’ead should be dressed. If you put Tom Belcher before me I’ll fight Tom Belcher, an’ for that matter I’ll fight Jem Belcher, or Bill Belcher, or any other Belcher that ever came out of Bristol.”
It was clear that Berks had got to the stage when he must fight some one. His heavy face was gorged and the veins stood out on his low forehead, while his fierce grey eyes looked viciously from man to man in quest of a quarrel. His great red hands were bunched into huge, gnarled fists, and he shook one of them menacingly as his drunken gaze swept round the tables.
“I think you’ll agree with me, gentlemen, that Joe Berks would be all the better for some fresh air and exercise,” said my uncle. “With the concurrence of His Royal Highness and of the company, I shall select him as our champion on this occasion.”
“You do me proud,” cried the fellow, staggering to his feet and pulling at his coat. “If I don’t glut him within the five minutes, may I never see Shropshire again.”
“Wait a bit, Berks,” cried several of the amateurs. “Where’s it going to be held?”