“Where you like, masters. I’ll fight him in a sawpit, or on the outside of a coach if it please you. Put us toe to toe, and leave the rest with me.”
“They can’t fight here with all this litter,” said my uncle. “Where shall it be?”
“’Pon my soul, Tregellis,” cried the Prince, “I think our unknown friend might have a word to say upon that matter. He’ll be vastly ill-used if you don’t let him have his own choice of conditions.”
“You are right, sir. We must have him up.”
“That’s easy enough,” said the landlord, “for here he comes through the doorway.”
I glanced round and had a side view of a tall and well-dressed young man in a long, brown travelling coat and a black felt hat. The next instant he had turned and I had clutched with both my hands on to Champion Harrison’s arm.
“Harrison!” I gasped. “It’s Boy Jim!”
And yet somehow the possibility and even the probability of it had occurred to me from the beginning, and I believe that it had to Harrison also, for I had noticed that his face grew grave and troubled from the very moment that there was talk of the stranger below. Now, the instant that the buzz of surprise and admiration caused by Jim’s face and figure had died away, Harrison was on his feet, gesticulating in his excitement.
“It’s my nephew Jim, gentlemen,” he cried. “He’s not twenty yet, and it’s no doing of mine that he should be here.”
“Let him alone, Harrison,” cried Jackson. “He’s big enough to take care of himself.”