“So he is, ma’am, but he carries it so easy. It’s only the beanstalk that looks tall. See here, I’m six foot myself, and our heads are level, except I’ve lost my fluff.”
“What is the chest measurement?”
“Forty-three inches, ma’am.”
“You certainly seem to be a very strong young man. And a game one, too, I hope?”
Young Spring shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s not for me to say, ma’am.”
“I can speak for that, ma’am,” said Cribb. “You read the Sporting Chronicle for three weeks ago, ma’am. You’ll see how he stood up to Ned Painter until his senses were beat out of him. I waited on him, ma’am, and I know. I could show you my waistcoat now—that would let you guess what punishment he can take.”
The lady waved aside the illustration. “But he was beat,” said she, coldly. “The man who beat him must be the better man.”
“Saving your presence, ma’am, I think not, and outside Gentleman Jackson my judgment would stand against any in the ring. My lad here has beat Painter once, and will again, if your ladyship could see your way to find the battle-money.”
The lady started and looked angrily at the Champion.