"You mean Jessamy Todd, sir?"
"Of course I do. And what's more—Tom Croxton, The 'Thunderbolt'—the man who forced Jessamy to fight—was a plant—"
"Now pray, Uncle George, how may a great, hulking ruffian even faintly resemble any such thing?"
At this my uncle gasped, stared, shook his head, jingled his spurs and finally spoke:
"In Heaven's name, don't pretend you're so infernal green, Perry! The 'Thunderbolt' is a fighting man from Lambeth, a tough customer who's won a fight or so lately and thought he could beat anything on two pins. So we were bringing him down here, hoping to match him with Jessamy, or, failing him, some other good man. But the fool, not knowing Jessamy, get's himself thrashed, and the whole thing's a flam."
"Jessamy has given up the game, Uncle."
"I know, but he loves it still. And you saw the fight! Tell me of it—no, wait—the others must hear." So saying, my uncle George hooked his powerful arm in mine and led me whither he would. By devious ways we went, to avoid the crowd; dodging behind empty caravans and waggons, skirting booths and tents until we came on one greater than all the rest, a huge canvas structure into which he brought me forthwith. The place was empty except for some scant few persons grouped about a stage whereon two fellows, naked to the waist, their fists swathed in what I believe are termed 'muffles', dodged and ducked, feinted or smote each other with great spirit and gusto until one of them, reeling from a flush hit, sat down with sudden violence and remained in this posture to blink and get his breath.
"Dooce—take me—Tom!" exclaimed this individual, in breathless reproach. "Your—infernal mug's—hard as—iron!"
"Craggy, my lord!" answered the other hoarsely. "Cragg by name an'
Craggy by natur', my lord!"
Thither my uncle George led me, his spurs jingling, whereupon the spectators turned to salute him and stare at me, among whom I recognised my uncle Jervas.