Here’s to Whiter’s health—so you know nothing about the fight?”
“No, sir; the truth is, that of late I have been very much occupied with various matters, otherwise I should, perhaps, have been able to afford you some information—boxing is a noble art.”
“Can you box?”
“A little.”
“I tell you what, my boy; I honour you, and provided your education had been a little less limited, I should have been glad to see you here in company with Parr and Whiter; both can box. Boxing is, as you say, a noble art—a truly English art; may I never see the day when Englishmen shall feel ashamed of it, or blacklegs and blackguards bring it into disgrace. I am a magistrate, and, of course, cannot patronise the thing very openly, yet I sometimes see a prize fight: I saw the Game Chicken beat Gulley.”
“Did you ever see Big Ben?”
“No! why do you ask?” But here we heard
a noise, like that of a gig driving up to the door, which was immediately succeeded by a violent knocking and ringing, and after a little time, the servant who had admitted me made his appearance in the room. “Sir,” said he, with a certain eagerness of manner, “here are two gentlemen waiting to speak to you.”
“Gentlemen waiting to speak to me! who are they?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said the servant; “but they look like sporting gentlemen, and—and”—here he hesitated; “from a word or two they dropped, I almost think that they come about the fight.”