“There’s a few of the old lot, and half a dozen novices; will you walk up presently, sir?”
“Is the Slogger here?”
“Yes, he’s here, sir. Unsteady hand, the Slogger—can’t keep him off his lush. Always breaks down in his training. I’ve stood twenty on him twice, but it’s no good. So he’s give up work, and comes here regular to spar. Worst of him is he will get on, late, and make a row. You remember Mr. Maynard paid his fines and took him out twice. He’s better than he used to be. I had to tell him that he must give it up, or clear out, for he got my place a bad name.”
“I want to have a talk with him, Perkins. A man named Barton,—I believe, from what John Holl says, you have met him at his place,—has got some papers relating to a cousin of Mr. Maynard’s. This man Barton is a great scoundrel, and I don’t know how to get at him, but I hear that the Slogger thinks he has got some sort of hold over him.”
“Yes,” Perkins said, “I told Holl about it. I know the Slogger thinks it is a great pull, but he ain’t a very long-headed chap, ain’t the Slogger. However, Mr. Prescott, you can talk to him. Here, Bill,” he called to a boy, “go upstairs and tell the Slogger he’s wanted down here.”
The boy returned with word that the Slogger was at present in the ring with Nobbler Jack, but would be down shortly.
In a few minutes the Slogger himself appeared, very hot, very red in the face, and a little puffed about the lips.
“Servant, Mr. Prescott!” he said, “long time since I saw you.”
“Yes, Slogger, I’ve been too busy and am getting too stiff to do much with the gloves now. Sit down and take something to drink.”
“Gin cold is my liquor, sir.”