Round 1.—Brettle had not entirely got rid of the marks of the previous week’s encounter; besides a cut under the left eye, the right optic was “deeply, darkly,” but not “beautifully blue,” and his face looked somewhat puffy. Mace had no more than a skin-deep scratch or two. No sooner had Brettle toed the scratch, than instead of forcing the fighting he stepped back, as if to try whether an alteration in tactics might change the fortune of war. Mace appeared fora few seconds doubtful, then drawing himself together, he slowly followed his man. Getting closer, Brettle let fly his right, and got home on Mace’s head, too round to be effective, while Jem’s counterhit caught him flush on the dial. Brettle broke ground, Mace after him; Bob got home on Mace’s body, but fell at the ropes in retreating.
2.—Mace came up smiling, and was met cheerfully by the Brum. Mace was no sooner within distance than he made his one two on the nose and eye, Brettle’s returns being short and ineffective. As Bob shifted position he slipped down on one knee, but instantly rising renewed the battle. In the struggle at the ropes, Mace was under, and a “foul” was claimed, on the allegation that Brettle had tried to “gouge” his man. The referee said “Go on.”
3.—Mace came up with a slight trickle of claret from his proboscis. Brettle’s face looked as if Mace “had been all over it.” Brettle fought on the retreat, but Mace was too clever at long shots for him to take anything by that manœuvre. As Bob broke ground, Mace nobbed him so severely that his head nodded like a mandarin, and on a second visit down went Bob, staggering from something very like a knock-down.
4.—The Brum came up bothered; yet he faced his man boldly—it was observed that he hit with the right hand open. Mace timed him with a straight prop and retreated. The Brum bored in; the men got across the ropes, when Brettle, lest Mace should fib him, slipped down, as quickly as he could.
5th and last.—Brettle came up quickly, but Jem, perceiving he had got his man, stood to him, and delivered both hands with marvellous rapidity. Bob hit away desperately, fighting his opponent to the ropes, where Jem delivered two more punishers, and Bob was down “all of a heap.” His seconds carried him to his corner. “Time” was called, when Mace sprang rapidly from Johnny Walker’s knee. Brettle’s seconds were still busy at their man, until, the given eight seconds having expired, Jem Hodgkiss threw up the sponge, and Mace was hailed the conqueror; the second fight having lasted seven minutes, the first twelve—nineteen minutes in all.
Remarks.—These shall be as brief as the battles. From first to last Brettle was out-classed, over-matched, and out-fought, Mace fully proving that once on a winning track, at a winning pace, he was not to be beaten.
In the summer of 1860, a gigantic Lancashire wrestler, 6ft. 2½in. in stature, and balancing 15 stone, put forth a claim to the Championship, and to do battle with this Goliath no better man was found than the once-hardy Tom Paddock, now on his last legs. They met on November 5th, 1860, when poor Tom was knocked out of time by the clumsy Colossus in the 5th round (see ante [p. 307]). With Sam Hurst—having formed a very low opinion of his boxing capabilities—Jem was most anxious to try conclusions, rightly estimating that a triumph over such a “man mountain” would dissipate any lingering doubts in the public mind of his personal pluck and prowess.
Accordingly, articles were drawn for a fight for £200 a side, Waterloo Day, the 18th of June, 1861, appointed for this interesting combat, and a trip down the river agreed to by both parties. It was determined that, to avoid interruption, an early start should be effected, and so well was this arrangement carried out that at a quarter before nine o’clock the queerly-matched pair stood facing each other in a marshy field on the river-shore, in the centre of a well-surrounded ring; Bos Tyler and Woody being entrusted with the care of Mace, Jem Hodgkiss and Jerry Noon nursing the North Country “Infant.”
THE FIGHT.
Round 1.—The old comparison of “a horse to a hen,” was not so fully verified as might be supposed, there being five stone difference in their relative weights, though the discrepancy in size was certainly remarkable. There was another point of contrast which, to the eye of the initiated, was fully worth consideration in any calculation of the chances of victory, and that was, the condition of the men. The Norwich champion’s compact symmetrical figure, well set-on head, bright keen eye, and finely-developed biceps, with tendons showing like knotted whipcord, muscle-clothed shoulders, square bust, flat loins and rounded hips, the whole supported by a pair of well-turned springy-looking pedestals, looked a model gladiator. Hurst, on the other hand, loomed big, heavy, clumsy, while a slight lop-sided lameness, the result of a broken leg, which accident had befallen him since his battle with Tom Paddock, did not improve the naturally ponderous slowness of his movements. His skin, though clear, seemed loose in parts, and the flesh looked flabby on his back and sides. There was an ungainliness in every movement, too, which suggested a second edition of the Tipton Slasher, considerably enlarged. His face, however, was tolerably hard, and he had a look of determination which augured well for his own opinion of success. His friends depended much upon the effect of any single blow he might get in in the course of the mill, feeling a kind of confidence that any damage he might incur from Mace he would put up with without a murmur, and that he certainly possessed an amount of game which, had it been backed by an ordinary share of the other attributes of a pugilist, must have rendered him invincible. On taking position Hurst at first stood well, with his left rather low, and, if anything, his elbow a little too close to his side; his general attitude, however, was good, and all fancied he had improved since his appearance with Paddock. This, however, lasted for a very brief period. Mace appeared steady, serious, and cautious, and fully aware of the difficulties he would have to face. He sparred round his man, in and out, feinting with all the skill of a perfect master of the art, but for some time did not venture near the gigantic arms of Hurst which swung like the sails of a windmill. At last he crept up, and after a quick feint led off on Sam’s left eye, but not heavily. Hurst made a chop in return, but out of distance. Jem again crept near, feinted then hit Sam heavily, left and right, on the cheek and nose, without a return. Hurst, not liking this, lumbered after his man, and a sharp exchange followed, Mace on the cheek and Hurst on the ribs. Mace retreated, looking serious, walked round his man, jobbed him swiftly on the nose, and got away laughing. Hurst tried another rush, and made one or two chopping hits which Mace easily avoided and then planted a straight right-hander on the nose, gaining “first blood,” amidst the uproarious cheers of his friends. Hurst still bored in, but only to receive another smack on the left eye; he just succeeded in reaching Jem’s lips, and the latter fell, laughing.