By the eighteenth round Spring’s left hand was quite useless. But his right hand was sound still and he used it with great effect. It was Spring’s defence which made him one of the best knuckle-fighters that ever lived. He could guard and stop blows with greater dexterity and judgment than almost any other man, but he also understood the art of avoiding punishment by good footwork, which entails less effort. He was not a remarkably hard hitter, and, as we have seen, he suffered severely from his hands: but his skill lay in hitting again and again and yet again on precisely the same spot, so that the cumulative effect of many blows was as great, if not greater in a long fight, than that of a single smasher.
Certainly Langan succeeded, as he had in the previous affair, in throwing the champion and in hurling his own twelve stone violently on top of him, but as a boxer he was not, as they say, in the same street. There was no sort of question about his pluck. Not satisfied with the result of the previous battle, Jack Langan made his seconds promise on this occasion not on any account to give in for him or to interfere in any way. Indeed Tom Belcher more than once called on him to fight when he was past fighting.
The twenty-fourth round found them both exceedingly willing. Spring with slight marks on cheek and eye but otherwise undamaged by Langan. Both his hands, however, were very swollen now. The fight had already lasted fifty-two minutes, and Langan was much punished. But over and over again he tried his best to get past Spring’s incomparable guard and failed. And now, the champion was getting by far the better of the falls too.
Once or twice during the later rounds there was a certain amount of bickering between the opposing seconds. Cribb, on one occasion, complained that Belcher was trying to gain time between the rounds: and once when Langan seized his opponent by the breeches to throw him a protest was made on that account, and the referee ordered Langan not to do it again.
The thirty-second round ended with a heavy fall for Langan, who struck his neck against one of the wooden rails which were used instead of ropes around the ring. A little later, in the thirty-sixth round, Langan’s backer, Colonel O’Neill, asked that he should be taken away. But this he steadfastly refused, as did his seconds, who had given their solemn promise in that regard. Instead, Langan took a nip of brandy which helped him to recover momentarily: and battered and sorely spent as he was, he croaked out jestingly to his seconds to be sure and keep the brandy cold. He made one or two more attempts to force the fighting, but his antagonist was still quite strong, unhurt, and as alert to seize opportunities and avoid danger as in the first round.
At the beginning of the forty-seventh round Langan was brought up to the scratch by his seconds, which, though strictly speaking, against the rules then in force, was frequently winked at. It was a good rule, and should have been adhered to: because if a man could not come up to the scratch at the call of time he was certainly in no condition to continue fighting. After a time Langan’s conduct went beyond the boundaries of pluck and became—what we should certainly call to-day—foolish obstinacy. “There was nothing to be gained by going on.” And how often do we hear that remark to-day in all manner of diverse connections. But we should recognise a signal virtue in that (no doubt foolish) desire to go on where “nothing is to be gained.” “Leave me alone, I will fight,” Langan said, when his plight was so obviously hopeless that the crowd on all sides yelled for him to be taken away. And he went on until the seventy-seventh round. And for many rounds before the end Spring never hit at all, but gently pushed the brave fellow down. In the end he came tottering to the scratch and fell senseless without even the push.
This fight lasted for one hour and forty-eight minutes.
Both Spring and Langan retired after this and became fast friends. “Thormanby” tell us that every year on the anniversary of their first fight Langan used to send Tom Spring a keg of the very best Irish potheen. Spring told “Thormanby” this story in 1851, just before he died.
After his retirement the champion took the Castle Tavern in Holborn, Tom Belcher’s lease of which had just expired, and he became widely known as a great landlord and sportsman.
“Thormanby” has another story to tell of Jack Langan’s generosity. He settled at Liverpool when he retired and took an inn there; and when the Irish harvesters came over each year, Langan would put up as many of them as he could for a couple of days on their way inland. These men he fed and provided with plenty of beer and a nightcap of potheen—on the condition that before going to roost they left their sickles and shillelaghs in his care.