4.—Girdler again first; but this time Burke stopped him with one, two, and a ding-dong rally ensued, in which Girdler was first on the grass, blowing like a porpoise.
5, 6, 7, 8.—Sam cheering on his man, who answered the call cheerfully, but always got two for one in the rally, and in the 8th round fell over the Deaf’un’s leg on his face so violently that Ward cried out to Holt to take his man away. “Take your man away,” retorted Holt; “he can’t beat mine in a week.”
9.—Girdler came up game, but went in without any aim or precision; the Deaf’un propped him again and again, and at last ran in and threw him a burster. (Cheers for the Deaf’un.)
10, 11, 12.—A one-sided game. Girdler down at the end of each round against his will, and beaten by his own exertions.
13, 14, 15.—Girdler merely staggered up to be hit, and finally went down fearfully punished.
16.—Girdler came once more and made a wild rush; the Deaf’un stepped aside, and sending in his one, two, on the side of the countryman’s head, he fell over anyhow.
17.—Cries of “take him away!” from the Londoners; but Girdler would not have it, and was indulged with one more round, which ended in his being floored in the hitting; whereupon Holt stepped across the ring and beckoned the Deaf’un, who at once crossed and shook hands with his brave but almost insensible antagonist. Time, 89 minutes.
The immense assembly now dispersed, the roads being soon alive, especially that which led towards Chichester and London. On one of the four-in-hands was seated “White-headed Bob” (Ned Baldwin), then in the full sunshine of aristocratic patronage. Bob had spent the overnight, or rather the morning, at the Monday masquerade, then in vogue at “His Majesty’s Theatre,” in the Haymarket, and donning a most remarkable suite of grey moustaches, whiskers, and beard, the resemblance to the then Duke of Cumberland was perfect. As the populace recognised the counterfeit of the unpopular Duke, the fun was uproarious. Pulling up at the “King’s Arms,” mine host hurried out with a decanter of sherry, a waiter following with champagne. H.R.H. cried out, “No, thankee, waiter, the Duke will take something short!” The schnapps was supplied. “I’m glad to see ye, my people,” said His Royal Highness, “but d——e if I like this stopping of fights; when I come next this way I’ll give you a turn, and if there’s no one else to fight, I’ll make one in a fight myself! Drive on, coachee!” And off went His Royal Highness in what the poet Bunn called “a blaze of triumph.”
The topsawyers of the top-weights of the day set their public appearances at too high a figure for the poor, unsophisticated Deaf’un to obtain any hearing for his modest proposal to fight any 12 or 12½ stone man for £25 a side, so he sparred at benefits and at the fairs and tennis courts, and hung about looking for a job until September, 1830, when Gow, who had beaten Ned Savage in December, 1829, offered himself to the Deaf’un’s notice, and articles were signed for a meeting on October 5th. The toss being won by Gow, he named Woolwich, and thither all parties repaired. There, however, they found Superintendent Miller, of the Thames Police, with sundry row-boats, and off they moved into Essex; but they could not shake off the anti-milling Miller, who, calling on a couple of beaks, pursued the excursionists towards Leytonstone, reinforced by the “Essex lions.” A council was held, which decided that as the game was “U.P.” in Essex, a retreat to Temple Mills across the border into Middlesex was the only chance of a quiet meeting. A “horrid whisper” went round that Superintendent Miller had a warrant from the magistrates at Snaresbrook, and that two active constables were already on the track. Jack Carter, changing coat, hat, and handkerchief with the Deaf’un, with the quickness of a clown in a transformation scene, took the Deaf’un’s seat in a one-horse chaise, while both of the men made the best of their way towards Temple Mills. The ruse succeeded. Carter was yet a mile from the Essex frontier, when up rode a couple of mounted men, quickly followed by a posse of the amphibious Thames constables, and called upon the driver of the gig to “Stop, in the King’s name,” which he loyally and dutifully did, and away poor Carter was haled before the nearest beak, and his capture officially announced to the worshipful functionary. The culprit was brought forward. “James Burke,” said the awful representative of Majesty, reading the warrant, “it is my duty to commit you for a contemplated breach of the peace within this county of Essex——” “Excuse me, sir,” interposed Jack, “my name isn’t Burke at all, and why these here gentlemen——” “Then what is your name?” “I can save your worship trouble,” said Superintendent Miller. “I know this man well; his name is Jack Carter, and if I’d been at hand I shouldn’t have mistaken him.” “You are discharged, fellow,” exclaimed his worship, indignantly, and away went Jack, with a low bow to his crestfallen captors. At the bridge at Temple Mills the pursuit ceased, and all got over the river Lea.
The fight that now took place presented no features worth recording. The Deaf’un, who had always a touch of eccentricity, on this occasion appeared in the ring in a grotesque and original costume. His “nether bulk” was encased in a pair of green baize drawers, profusely bound and seamed with yellow braid, and with flying yellow ribbons at the knees, below which his sturdy pedestals were encased in a pair of bright striped worsted stockings and laced highlows. Although the day was waning, Burke managed to polish off his job before dark, Gow never getting a lead during 22 busy rounds, at the end of which his second, Birmingham Davis (who, as will be seen afterwards, fought the Deaf’un), claimed the fight for Burke, Gow not answering to the call of “Time.”