CHAPTER VIII
SCOTCHING A SNAKE.
At nine o’clock the next morning Prescott went into the “Lively Stunners.” Perkins was, as usual, at his post behind the bar, in his shirt-sleeves.
“Well, Perkins, how go things with you?”
“Lor, Mr. Prescott, what a time it is since you’ve been into the old crib, to be sure. The sight of you is good for one’s eyes. Come inside, sir,” and he shook hands warmly with Prescott and led the way into his snuggery behind the bar. A mere slip of a room, but comfortable, and decorated with the portraits of many worthies of the ring, in fighting costume and defiant attitudes—not perhaps a handsome set of men, but with an undeniable development of biceps. In the post of honour, over the mantel-piece, was the portrait of Perkins himself in fighting costume, as he appeared on standing up for the first round of that celebrated fight of his with “Unknown.” His portrait, as taken in the sixty-first and last round of that tournament, would have been less pleasant to see. Upon the mantel-piece were several silver cups, with inscriptions, stating that they had been presented to Perkins by admirers of his science, endurance, and British pluck.
“Sit down, Mr. Prescott, and light up; these cigars are a good brand. Now, sir, name your liquor?”
Prescott named his liquor, Perkins himself mixed it, and then having left the charge of the bar to his assistant, took his seat by Prescott.
“And how go things with you, Perkins?”
“Bobbish, Mr. Prescott, bobbish. No great shakes, perhaps, but nothing to grumble about. I don’t think the young swells are quite what they were. Stroll in, you know, and look on, but don’t go in so much for work as they used to do. Don’t take their punishment so kindly, you know. Bad job that about Mr. Maynard, sir. Heard about it from John Holl, Holl’s boy being in his service. Now, he was what I call first-rate, just first-rate. Shoulder a little too low, perhaps, but I defy any man to point out another blemish. Wonderful quick for a heavy weight, and such a hitter. I tell you what, Mr. Prescott, though I shouldn’t like it to go further, I never put on the gloves with any man that I felt so unsafe with as with Mr. Maynard. He stood just a little over me. He was as active on his pins as a kitten, and very quick with his head. He didn’t mind how hard you hit him, never lost his temper, but was always there, and then, just when you didn’t expect it, out would come his left like a sledge-hammer, and his right after it. Ah, he was a out-and-outer. A champion spoilt, sir, I call him, a champion spoilt. I’d have backed him against the Slasher, sir, and put every halfpenny I had on it.”
Prescott laughed.
“Yes, he is an awkward customer, Perkins. And now what’s going on upstairs?”