“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Farnaby. “Taverner hit me in the face.”
“I can see he did,” said his friend, interestedly surveying the contusion that marred Mr. Farnaby’s countenance.
Farnaby flushed. “You should know I am not the man to stomach an insult!” he declared.
“Not unless you were paid to,” agreed Captain Crake.
Mr. Farnaby said with dignity that the Captain forgot himself.
“I don’t forget myself, but it seems to me that you have,” said the Captain frankly. “If there was money in this, where was my share? Tell me that!”
“There is no money,” said Mr. Farnaby, and closed the interview.
He spent the rest of the day in a mood of bitter discontent, and betook himself in the evening to the King’s Arms, at the corner of Duke Street and King Street, to solace himself with gin and the company of such of his cronies as he might find there.
The King’s Arms was owned by Thomas Cribb, champion heavyweight of England. All sorts of conditions of men, from titled gentlemen to coal-heavers, frequented it, but it was not every visitor’s fortune to be admitted into the famous parlour. Mr. Farnaby for one did not rank amongst the privileged. Since gin and not boxing-talk was what he came for, this did not trouble him, and he was quite content to ensconce himself in a cosy corner of the tap-room and watch the prize-fighters and the Corinthians drift past him to the inner sanctum. The tavern was always crowded; every young buck came to it, every prize-fighter of note, and it was not unusual for some ambitious person to walk in and pick a quarrel with the genial host for the privilege of being able to boast afterwards that he had exchanged blows with the Champion. This practice had of late become less popular, as Cribb had formed a disappointing habit of hailing his would-be assailants straight before a magistrate, on the score that if he obliged every man who wanted to be knocked down by him he would have no peace at all.
Mr. Farnaby found a nook in the tap-room on this particular evening, and settled down to his glass of daffy, keeping a lookout for any acquaintance who might come in.