The burly-built hero of the ring entered the office, leading his tiny friend by the hand; and he and the lad having been placed side by side on a stool before the bench, the Champion stated what he had heard of the transaction, adding, “The poor little fellow has no friend in the world but me, your worship, and hang me if I would not rather have been beat myself.”
“That would not have been so easy a matter, Mr. Cribb,” observed his worship, and directed the dwarf to be sworn.
The little fellow then gave a very humble and modest account of the affair. He said, in tolerable English, that he was very sorry anybody should be troubled on his account, but Mr. Beckett would not be satisfied unless he would fight with the boy, and because he would not fight, he urged the boy on, till he knocked him down by “a blow on de mout, which cut him vor mush, and hurt him a mush deal.”
The lad pulled out his torn shirt-frill in reply, and the father delivered his defence thus:—“It was the brandy and water that did it, your worship; I’ll tell the truth: it was the brandy and water sure enough. I have known Mr. Cribb many years.” “That’s the reason you ought not to have taken advantage of my absence, to insult a poor little fellow you know I cared so much for,” observed the kind-hearted Champion.
The magistrate, after having warmly commended the conduct of the Champion, directed the hackneyman to find bail for the assault. Upon retiring to settle the row, the dragsman made it “all right” with Cribb, by making the dwarf a present of a sovereign.
At the Fives Court, on the occasion of Scroggins’s benefit, March 23, 1817, Jack Carter, who then aspired to the championship, which for nearly eight years had remained undisputed in the hands of Cribb, made his appearance upon the stage, and a glove being thrown up as a defiance, the Champion of England presented himself, to answer the challenge. However, upon Gregson ascending the platform to spar, Cribb was about to retire, when “Cribb, Cribb!” was vociferated from all parts of the court. The anxiety was so great, that the disturbance was hardly appeased until Cribb appeared ready for the combat. Cribb looked well and kept his position like a rock. He could neither be drawn nor stepped in upon, and the skirmishing tactics of the Lancashire hero could make no impression on the veteran of the ring. At in-fighting Cribb also decidedly took the lead. Carter put in one or two facers with much dexterity; but upon the milling system the Black Diamond proved that he was still a diamond, and instead of losing any of his former brilliancy, he shone with increased lustre and effect.
“From this period,” says “Boxiana,” “Carter seems to have ‘fancied’ a shy at Cribb, and on his return from Ireland on Tuesday, February 1, 1820, he challenged the man of colour, Sutton, for 100 guineas a-side. While this match was on, Carter called in at a sporting house, at the west end of the town; and, in consequence of his not being admitted into a private party, then assembled, he intemperately addressed a note to the chairman as ‘Mr. Swell.’ He was, however, admitted, when he had the bad taste to begin flourishing about his repeated conquests over the dark part of the creation. He also sneered at the Champion, saying, he had left off fighting, because fighting had left him off; but he (Carter) had come to fight somebody, and indeed he would fight ‘onybody!’ This sort of chaffing was attempted to be checked by a person present, when the Lancashire brute, sans ceremonie, threw the contents of a glass of wine in his face, part of which alighted on Tom Cribb. This insult was not to be borne, and the champion of England exclaimed “it was wrong!” Carter hereon defied him. Little parley ensued, ere the lion of the ring, although rather worse for the juice of the grape, grappled his enemy. He held up the Lancashire hero with the utmost ease, with one hand, in the Randall style, and Carter’s frontispiece received such repeated quiltings from the fist of Cribb that it was like a fashionable footman paying away at a knocker. It was close quarters—in fact, yard-arm to yard-arm; but the heavy shot of the first rate, although long laid up in ordinary, and nearly invalided, told heavily on the mug of his opponent. It was an up-and-down contest, and the Champion made such good use of his time, that his opponent was quite satisfied he had enough, and begged, in a piteous manner, that some person would take Cribb away from him, or else he should be killed! This entreaty was at length complied with; and upon the fallen hero getting upon his pins, the lads of the Fancy declared, from his altered appearance, that it was meeting an old friend with a new face. This severe thrashing scarcely occupied Cribb one minute! He did not receive a hurt in the slightest degree. Carter upon feeling his mouth, declared that part of his railings had departed.”
Until his formal retirement, Cribb never allowed his title of Champion to be questioned; and at the conclusion of the set-to between Harmer and Lancaster, at the Fives Court, on August 7th, 1820, the Champion rushed in, almost out of wind, made his way through the audience in a twinkling, ascended the stage with great rapidity, and threw up his hat. With his other hand he snatched out his pocket-book, and, with great animation and good emphasis, spoke to the following effect—keeping in mind our immortal bard’s advice to the actors, to
“Suit the action to the word.”
“Gentlemen,—I will fight Neate for 1000 guineas, or for 500 a-side (bravo). I have been just told, while I was taking a few whiffs over some cold brandy and water, that Neate had publicly challenged me. I therefore lost no time to show myself before you. Gentlemen, I do not like this chaffing behind a man’s back. I won’t have it. I am an Englishman; and I will behave like one. An Englishman never refuses a challenge (thunders of applause from all parts of the court). Neate is my countryman, but what of that? If he refuses to meet me, I will fight any man in Bristol for 1,000 guineas, and stake £100 directly. Here’s the blunt! My countrymen used me ill when I was last at Bristol; and Neate behaved rude to me (hear! and ‘Tom’s quite an orator; he must certainly have taken lessons from Thelwall.’) Perhaps ‘the old fool’ may be licked; but I will give any of them some trouble first before they do it (‘There is no one on the list can do it, Tom.’) I will tell you, gentlemen, they say Neate shall fight my boy, Spring, because they know he is unwell. This conduct isn’t right; my boy’s in a consumption (loud laughter), therefore I will fight Neate instead of him (bravo). My boy Spring has not got belly enough for him, but I have (clapping his hand upon his rotundity of abdomen.) ‘You have too much of it.’ Never mind, then, I am right enough about my bottom (great applause and laughter). I will fight; and blow my dickey (striking his fist very hard on the rails of the stage), but I will give any of them that fight me pepper (tumultuous cheering, and ‘To a certainty you will, Tom.’)”