THE FIGHT.
Round 1.—The men prepared for action in good style, Spencer adopting Ned Neale’s mode of keeping up his left hand. Sampson was also on the alert. After a short time occupied in manœuvring, Spencer endeavoured to make his right and left tell, but Phil got out of danger. A short pause; both on the look-out for an opening, when the Mud Island Devil planted his right hand on Sampson’s nob; the latter boxer returned left and right, and a brisk rally was the result. In closing Phil fell on his knee, and Spencer, in fibbing, hit Sampson as he was down. (“Foul!” “Fair!”) The friends of Sampson claimed the fight, but the umpires ordered the battle to proceed.
2.—Caution on both sides. Spencer held his left still up, and let fly with his right. Sampson stopped him skilfully, and hit out right and left, delivering well on the nob. A desperate rally followed, in which sharp hits were exchanged. Sampson planted his right on Spencer’s mouth as he was rushing in, when Spencer caught him on top of his canister with his right, and made a slight incision. Sampson then closed, and fibbed at the body with his right, while Spencer peppered away at his upper works, but without much effect. At length Spencer got the lock with his right leg, and threw Sampson a cross-buttock, falling heavily upon him. (The Liverpool blades in an uproar; and, “You are sure to win it, Pat.”)
3.—Sampson showed blood from his nob, and Spencer from his mouth. Spencer looked a little flushed and dropped his left. Sampson saw the opening, rushed in, and hit him down with a straight one, two, right and left. (“Sampson for ever!” and “Phil, it’s all your own!”)
4.—Sampson again planted his right and left from the shoulder, cutting Spencer on the left eye. Spencer was not to be shook off, but instantly went to work, hitting out right and left, but wildly. Sampson met Spencer as he rushed in with a few flush hits—a close followed, and some good in-fighting ensued, Sampson feeling for the bread-basket, and Spencer at the nob. Spencer then tried for another cross-buttock, but Sampson was not to be had, and slipped down in time. (Two to one on Sampson.)
The fight was now stopped by the interference of a magistrate. “You cannot fight any longer,” said he; “I will not permit it.” “It won’t be long,” cried Sampson; “I’ll soon finish him, so let us have it out.” “No,” said his worship, “I must not. I should have no objection myself, but I have been applied to in my magisterial capacity, and I am forced to act. I am sorry for it, but ‘needs must.’” Submission was the order of the day; his worship retired, and the men adjourned back to Newcastle, there to deliberate on further proceedings, Sampson proclaiming to his friends that he was sure to win, and offering three to one on the issue. The men had fought just eight minutes.
On reaching Newcastle Spencer was put to bed, while Sampson remained up with his friends. At length it was agreed, according to the “articles,” that the fight should be fought out, and the word was given for taking up new ground at a village called Woore, in Shropshire, on the borders of Cheshire. The moment the signal was given, “The devil take the hindmost!” was the order of the day, and the rush of the motley group to arrive at the scene of action in time beggared description. It was half-past four, and quite dusk, before the cavalcade reached the “Horse and Jockey,” at Woore, in a meadow behind which the ring was again pitched by Tom Oliver.
The best pedestrians were completely knocked up in the run, and several first-rate roadsters beaten to a stand-still. The entire group, owing to the wretched state of the road, were nothing but mudlarks.
No time was lost, both men appearing “eager for the fray,” and each feeling equal confidence. Sampson showed first in the ring.
SECOND FIGHT.