‘Oh! my lord, no.’
‘Help the lady down. Out with you, Ines!’
The light-legged barge-faced man touched ground capering. He was greeted ‘Kit’ by the pair of gentlemen, who shook hands with him, after he had faintly simulated the challenge to a jig with Madge. She flounced from him, holding her arms up to the lady. Landlord, landlady, and hostler besought the lady to stay for the fixing of a ladder. Carinthia stepped, leaped, and entered the inn, Fleetwood remarking:
‘We are very independent, Chummy Potts.’
‘Cordy bally, by Jove!’ Potts cried. But the moment after this disengaged ejaculation, he was taken with a bewilderment. ‘At the Opera?’ he questioned of his perplexity.
‘No, sir, not at the Opera,’ Fleetwood rejoined. ‘The lady’s last public appearance was at the altar.’
‘Sort of a suspicion of having seen her somewhere. Left her husband behind, has she?’
‘You see: she has gone in.’
The scoring of a proposition of Euclid on the forehead of Potts amused him and the other gentleman, who was hailed ‘Mallard!’ and cared nothing for problems involving the female of man when such work was to the fore as the pugilistic encounter of the Earl of Fleetwood’s chosen Kit Ines, with Lord Brailstone’s unbeaten and well-backed Ben Todds.
Ines had done pretty things from the age of seventeen to his twenty-third year. Remarkably clever things they were, to be called great in the annals of the Ring. The point, however, was, that the pockets of his backers had seriously felt his latest fight. He received a dog’s licking at the hands of Lummy Phelps, his inferior in skill, fighting two to one of the odds; and all because of his fatal addiction to the breaking of his trainer’s imposed fast in liquids on, the night before the battle. Right through his training, up to that hour, the rascal was devout; the majority’s money rattled all on the snug safe side. And how did he get at the bottle? His trainers never could say. But what made him turn himself into a headlong ass, when he had only to wait a night to sit among friends and worshippers drinking off his tumbler upon tumbler with the honours? It was past his wits to explain. Endurance of his privation had snapped in him; or else, which is more likely, this Genius of the Ring was tempted by his genius on the summit of his perfected powers to believe the battle his own, and celebrate it, as became a victor despising the drubbed antagonist.