“I will take my chance of that, sir,” said the assistant.
On the Friday night, which was the last night before the fight, Montgomery’s three backers assembled in the gymnasium and inspected their man as he went through some light exercises to keep his muscles supple. He was certainly in splendid condition, his skin shining with health, and his eyes with energy and confidence. The three walked round him and exulted.
“He’s simply ripping!” said the undergraduate.
“By gad, you’ve come out of it splendidly. You’re as hard as a pebble, and fit to fight for your life.”
“Happen he’s a trifle on the fine side,” said the publican. “Runs a bit light at the loins, to my way of thinkin’.”
“What weight to-day?”
“Ten stone eleven,” the assistant answered.
“That’s only three pund off in a week’s trainin’,” said the horse-breaker. “He said right when he said that he was in condition. Well, it’s fine stuff all there is of it, but I’m none so sure as there is enough.” He kept poking his finger into Montgomery as if he were one of his horses. “I hear that the Master will scale a hundred and sixty odd at the ring-side.”
“But there’s some of that which he’d like well to pull off and leave behind wi’ his shirt,” said Purvis. “I hear they’ve had a rare job to get him to drop his beer, and if it had not been for that great red-headed wench of his they’d never ha’ done it. She fair scratted the face off a potman that had brought him a gallon from t’ ‘Chequers.’ They say the hussy is his sparrin’ partner, as well as his sweetheart, and that his poor wife is just breakin’ her heart over it. Hullo, young ’un, what do you want?”
The door of the gymnasium had opened and a lad, about sixteen, grimy and black with soot and iron, stepped into the yellow glare of the oil lamp. Ted Barton seized him by the collar.