“And I like the look of you, and wish you well,” said Belcher, holding out his hand. They were not unlike each other, either in face or figure, though the Bristol man was a few years the older, and a murmur of critical admiration was heard as the two tall, lithe figures, and keen, clean-cut faces were contrasted.
“Have you any choice where the fight takes place?” asked my uncle.
“I am in your hands, sir,” said Jim.
“Why not go round to the Five’s Court?” suggested Sir John Lade.
“Yes, let us go to the Five’s Court.”
But this did not at all suit the views of the landlord, who saw in this lucky incident a chance of reaping a fresh harvest from his spendthrift company.
“If it please you,” he cried, “there is no need to go so far. My coach-house at the back of the yard is empty, and a better place for a mill you’ll never find.”
There was a general shout in favour of the coach-house, and those who were nearest the door began to slip through, in the hope of scouring the best places. My stout neighbour, Bill Warr, pulled Harrison to one side.
“I’d stop it if I were you,” he whispered.
“I would if I could. It’s no wish of mine that he should fight. But there’s no turning him when once his mind is made up.” All his own fights put together had never reduced the pugilist to such a state of agitation.