“You don’t need to look so cocky, Rodger,” cried a cynical voice in the crowd. “There be lots o’ men as could throw thee, though they ben’t here just now.”
Rodger turned sharply round, intending to give an angry defiance to the speaker; but seeing that it was only Reuben Drew, a white-haired old shoemaker of small stature, he burst into a sarcastic laugh.
“Well, I don’t deny,” he said, “that there may be many men as could throw me, but I defy any of ’ee now present to do it.”
This was an opening for Jeff Benson, who was not slow to avail himself of it. Stepping into the ring he threw off his coat.
“Come along, Rodger,” he said, with a good-humoured look; “you’ll have to make good your words.”
Of course our hero was received with a cheer of satisfaction; for although Jeff was two inches shorter than his adversary—the latter being six feet two—it could be seen at a glance that he was at least his match in breadth of shoulder and development of muscle. But in truth the young coastguardsman was much more than the blacksmith’s match, for at school he had received special training in the art of wrestling from his father, who was a Cornishman, and hard service in the coasting trade had raised his strength of limb to the highest possible point.
“Surely I’ve seen that young man somewhere,” whispered one of the spectators to Reuben.
“So have I,” returned the latter. “Don’t he look uncommon like the old schoolmaster’s son? Hallo!”
And well might Reuben exclaim “hallo!” for Jeff, instead of grasping his opponent round the waist, had suddenly seized him with one hand by the neck, with the other by the leg, and lifting him completely off the ground, had flung him on his back.
The people were too much astonished at first to cheer. They burst into a fit of laughter, which, however, extended into a hearty cheer when Reuben cried out, “It is Jeffrey Benson, as sure as I’m alive,” and claimed him as a townsman.