Langan had a desperate battle with a man of the name of Hemet: the latter person struck the father of our hero. “I will make you repent your conduct, you blackguard,” said Jack. “A boy like you?” replied Hemet; “I’ll kick your breech, if you give me any more of your prate.” Young Langan, as we have before mentioned, was fond of milling; but in defence of his father felt doubly armed; and in the course of thirty minutes Hemet was glad to acknowledge the boy was his master.
One Savage, a man weighing about eleven stone, and twenty-one years of age, had behaved unhandsomely to Jack three years previously to the period when the following circumstances transpired. Langan, although not more than sixteen years old, entertained an opinion that he was able to take the field against Savage, and challenged him without hesitation. Savage, with the utmost contempt, accepted the challenge, and agreed to fight on the banks of the Dublin canal. A few friends on each side attended to see fair play. The battle was long, and well-contested; but night coming on, as neither of the combatants would agree to surrender, it was deemed expedient according to the laws of honour, to fight it out, and therefore candles[[10]] were introduced. But, before the glims required topping, Langan floored his opponent, by a wisty-castor upon the jugular, and Savage was carried home amidst the lamentations of his friends, and the regret of Langan. Savage was washed and laid out by his lamenting associates, and everything comfortable prepared to “wake” him. The body was surrounded by about forty old women and men, smoking and drinking, and bewailing his loss, interspersed every now and then with some prime fil-la-loos. “Arrah! my dear Jemmy, why did you put your head in the way of Jack Langan’s fist?”
In the midst of this beautiful solemnity, to the great surprise and confusion of the company present, Mr. Savage waked himself, but, before he could enquire into the particulars how he came into this strange situation, the whole assembly brushed off with terror, leaving the corpse to explain his position in the best manner he could.
Good as Langan had proved himself in the above contest, Paddy Moran challenged our hero. The latter proposed to fight Jack upon the real principles of milling—for love, glory, and honour. Blunt was out of the question, for the best of all reasons—Moran had nothing in the funds. “You shall be accommodated,” replied Langan; “it shall be for love, glory, and honour.” It was a severe battle for fourteen rounds, and although Moran was compelled to submit to defeat, he proved himself a brave man, and Langan’s nob received some ugly visitations during the fight.
Moran’s brother called Langan out to meet him in the field of battle, the following week. Our hero, fresh as a daisy, and gay as a lark, accepted the challenge with the utmost alacrity and when “Time” was called, proved himself ready. Moran’s brother likewise proved a man of excellent courage, but he had nothing like so good a chance as his relative. After a few rounds, Langan became the conqueror, without a mark the worse for his encounter. Norman, a pugilist distinguished in Dublin, seconded Moran’s brother against Jack; but his conduct appearing questionable, Langan sent a challenge to Norman.
Norman accepted the challenge, but requested to name Sunday for the time of combat. To this request Langan positively refused; upon any other day, he said he should be happy to wait upon his opponent. After some little “blowing up” on the subject, it was agreed that the battle should take place on the following Thursday. Norman, who was a deep covey, and wishing to turn everything to a good account in which he was engaged, gave out the mill would take place on the Sunday. He was a proprietor of jaunting cars, and every one of his vehicles was engaged for the fight. Some hundreds of the Fancy were completely hoaxed by being collected together within a short distance of Old Langan’s cottage. Young Jack did not make his appearance, to the astonishment of the spectators; when Norman cut a great bounce, and, offered to put down twenty pounds to back himself—well knowing Langan would not be present; expressing his surprise at the absence of Langan, who, he told the crowd, had made a promise to meet him. The news was soon brought to Jack of the trick played off by Norman. He instantly started off to the public-house, where Norman was swallowing the whiskey like water; rejoicing how he had done the flats that day. Langan, with more courage than prudence, without hesitation, told Norman he had conducted himself like a blackguard. Norman, surrounded by his father, brothers, and friends, fell upon Langan before he was scarcely withinside the door, and, with the aid of whips, sticks, etc., so punished him that if a few of his supporters had not rushed in, Langan might have been found as “dead as door nail.” Jack was picked up insensible, taken home, and put to bed.
Thursday, the day appointed for the mill, drew on rapidly, when our hero sent to Norman, trusting that he would not fail in being true to his time. This Langan did, against the advice of his friends. Jack could hardly lift his right hand to his head, from a blow he had received among the mob of unmanly fellows, in the interest of Norman, nevertheless he met his man on the North Strand, near Clontarf. The car-keeper was seconded by Pat Halton and Cummings; and Langan by two tight boys belonging to the “Island of Mud.” The battle lasted above an hour, because Langan could not punish Norman with his right, but, even in this crippled state he had so much the best of the fight, that Norman’s friends, who were by far the most numerous, seeing that he must lose, rushed in, separated the combatants, saved their blunt, and put an end to the mill. Langan was exceedingly vexed that he was prevented from dressing his antagonist as he deserved. In a few days after this affair, about five o’clock in the morning, Jack was roused from his bed by a violent knocking at the door. Between sleeping and waking, with peepers neither open nor shut, he came down in his shirt to see what was the matter. On opening the door, Jack believed he was dreaming, for, strange to relate, he beheld Norman stripped, and in a fighting attitude. “By J——s,” said Norman, “I have been uneasy all night. I could not sleep, Jack, so I thought you and I could amuse ourselves very agreeably; besides having the day before us.” “Is it a day you said?” replied Langan; “by the Saint of Ould Ireland, I’ll settle your impertinence in a few minutes; before I return to roost and finish my rest, I’ll pay you, Misther Norman, for calling me up.” Langan ran over to the stream opposite his father’s cabin, and washed his face. “Now,” said he, “I’m ready; take care of yourself.” The novelty of this battle was, that no umpires, bottle-holders, nor seconds on either side, were engaged. In the short space of four rounds, it was all over. Norman napt it in such first-rate style, that he laid on the ground like a calf, so completely satisfied, that he never requested a third battle. Langan at that period did not weigh more than ten stone three pounds,[[11]] while Norman weighed thirteen stone seven pounds.
It was impossible for Langan to remain idle with such a reputation, as some one or other was continually offering himself to his notice. Slantlea, a hardy fellow, offered his services to Jack, which were accepted without a single murmur. But to ensure success, the night before the battle, Langan was introduced by a friend to the late Sir Daniel Donnelly. The advice of the Irish (whiskey-punch) Champion was asked as to the best mode of training. “Is it training you mane?” replied Sir Dan, with a smile upon his comical mug; “by the okey, I never troubled myself much about that training, d’ye see, which the fellows in the Longtown make so much bother about. But, nevertheless, I will give my opinion as to what I think necessary to be done upon such occasions. First of all, you must take off your shirt, Jack Langan, then walk up and down the room briskly, and hit well out with both hands, as if you intended giving your opponent a snoozing without asking for his night-cap. Jump backwards and forwards one hundred times at least; and then to find out if the wind is good, for being out of breath in fighting, my boy, is not a very comfortable thing for a distressed man. Now, Jack,” says Sir Dan, it being then about twelve o’clock at night, “you must go home directly, and drink half a gallon of the sourest butter-milk you can get, and then go to bed. At five o’clock, not a minute after five o’clock in the morning, you must get up, and run three or four miles, and at every mile you must swig, not whiskey, by J——s, but a quart of spring water. Mind, now Langan, do as I tell you.” Jack thanked Sir Daniel for his friendly advice, and started off to procure the butter-milk; but felt extremely mortified after knocking up all the dairymen in the neighbourhood, that he was not able to buy more than three pints. At five o’clock in the morning, although Langan had scarcely had an hour or two of rest, he jumped out of bed to finish his training. To make up for the deficiency of butter-milk, our hero drank a greater proportion of water. The time appointed for the fight to take place was six o’clock; but Jack, in his eagerness to train, was nearly half an hour behind his time. His antagonist was upon leaving the ground, when Langan mounted the brow of a hill, in sight of the ring, quite out of breath, and dripping with perspiration, roared out as loud as he was able, “Don’t go yet, man, I’ll be wid you in a jiffy!” The ring was again formed, and Langan, hot as fire, stripped for action cool as a cucumber.
Slantlea began well: he took the lead, gave Langan several clumsy thumps, and had decidedly the best of the Irish Champion for the first four rounds. He sent Langan down three times by nobbing hits; and the friends of the former laughed heartily at the idea of his paying off Slantlea for waiting for him. “You have got your master now, Jack, before you.” “Be aisy,” replied Langan; “I have trained by the advice of Dan Donnelly; I’m sure I’ll bate any opponent; only look, I’m just going to begin!” and letting fly his left hand in full force upon Slantlea’s head, the latter fell as if he had been shot. Poor Slantlea never recovered from the effects of this blow; but he proved himself a game man for thirteen rounds, when he received a finisher. It was over in thirty-five minutes.
A porter of the name of Dalton, employed at the Irish Custom-house—a Josh. Hudson in nature, but so fond of milling that hardly a fellow round the Custom-house dared look at him—challenged Langan. “By the powers of Moll Kelly,” said Dalton, “he shall find he will have something more to do in bating me than he had with Slantlea.” The battle took place in Gloucester-fields. Dalton pelted away like a bull-dog for four rounds, but Langan put an end to his ferocity in the course of three more. At the expiration of twenty-five minutes Dalton was rendered as harmless as a mouse.