‘Can ye put ‘em up?’ was the next query. ‘Why, yes,’ said Paul. ‘I can put ‘em up if I see rayson for it.’
‘All right We’ll tak’ yo on in place of Ikey Blades. This is the fust chap yo’n ha’ to tackle. Billy Tunks he is—comes from Virgin’s End.’
Billy Tunks (or Tonks, more probably) carried one of the pale and staring faces Paul had already noticed. He and Paul surveyed each other.
The man in the rabbit-skin waistcoat, having arranged preliminaries, explained to Paul. This was ‘a little bit of a friendly turn-up with the weepons of Natur’,’ intended to settle the disputed qualities of the youth of eight local parishes. Paul’s presence, it appeared, was entirely providential, for, with the exception of the seven candidates here in search of glory, there was nobody present who had not at one time or another ‘fowt’ for money.
‘I suppose,’ said Paul’s informant, ‘you’ve never fowt for money?’
‘No,’ Paul answered, ‘I’ve never fowt for money. Mek yourself easy on that score.’
‘Oh,’ said the other, ‘I wasn’t castin’ no suspicion. But it’s just a quiet bit o’ fun like for them as ain’t been blooded in a reg’lar way. It’s a bit o’ fun for the young uns. Billy an’ yov comes second.’
‘All right,’ said Paul.
He thought of Ralston’s letter, and laughed. Lofty conduct breeds the lofty ideal. What would Ralston say to this, he wondered? Not that the thing had a touch of barbarism to his mind. It was rough, of course, but it was inspiring, and he was used to it. He had seen a great deal of this peculiar sport, and had a warm liking for it. Being in it was better than looking on, but even looking on was pleasant.
‘Now, lads,’ said the master of the ceremonies, ‘get to your corners. An’, gentlemen-sports all, no shoutin’.’