“I’ve got a cold coming on,” ses pore Ginger, looking at the Basher, who was on in front, “and a splitting ’eadache, and a sharp pain all down my left leg. I don’t think——”
“Well, it’s a good job it’s no worse,” ses the landlord; “all you’ve got to do is to hit ’ard. If you win it’s a ’undered pounds in my pocket, and I’ll stand you a fiver of it. D’ye understand?”
They turned down some little streets, several of ’em going diff’rent ways, and arter crossing the River Lea got on to the marshes, and, as the landlord said, the place might ha’ been made for it.
A little chap from Mile End was the referee, and Bill Lumm, ’aving peeled, stood looking on while Ginger took ’is things off and slowly and carefully folded ’em up. Then they stepped toward each other, Bill taking longer steps than Ginger, and shook ’ands; immediately arter which Bill knocked Ginger head over ’eels.
“Time!” was called, and the landlord o’ the Jolly Pilots, who was nursing Ginger on ’is knee, said that it was nothing at all, and that bleeding at the nose was a sign of ’ealth. But as it happened Ginger was that mad ’e didn’t want any encouragement, he on’y wanted to kill Bill Lumm.
He got two or three taps in the next round which made his ’ead ring, and then he got ’ome on the mark and follered it up by a left-’anded punch on Bill’s jaw that surprised ’em both—Bill because he didn’t think Ginger could hit so ’ard, and Ginger because ’e didn’t think that prize-fighters ’ad any feelings.
They clinched and fell that round, and the landlord patted Ginger on the back and said that if he ever ’ad a son he ’oped he’d grow up like ’im.
Ginger was surprised at the way ’e was getting on, and so was old Sam and Peter Russet, and when Ginger knocked Bill down in the sixth round Sam went as pale as death. Ginger was getting marked all over, but he stuck, to ’is man, and the two dock policemen, wot ’ad put their money on Bill Lumm, began to talk of their dooty, and say as ’ow the fight ought to be stopped.