Rodney Stone by Arthur Conan Doyle (best books to read non fiction .TXT) 📕

It was at the end of my first week in London that my uncle gave a supper to the fancy, as was usual for gentlemen of that time if they wished to figure before the public as Corinthians and patrons of sport. He had invited not only the chief fighting-men of the day, but also those men of fashion who were most interested in the ring: Mr. Fletcher Reid, Lord Say and Sele, Sir Lothian Hume, Sir John Lade, Colonel Montgomery, Sir Thomas Apreece, the Hon. Berkeley Craven, and many more. The rumour that the Prince was to be present had already spread through the clubs, and invitations were eagerly sought after.

The Waggon and Horses was a well-known sporting house, with an old prizefighter for landlord. And the arrangements were as primitive as the most Bohemian could wish. It was one of the many curious fashions which have now died out, that men who were blase from luxury and high living seemed to find a fresh piquancy in life by descending to the lowest resorts, so that the night-houses and gambling-dens in Covent Garden or the Haymarket often gathered illustrious company under their smoke-blackened ceilings. It was a change for them to turn their backs upon the cooking of Weltjie and of Ude, or the chambertin of old Q., and to dine upon a porter-house steak washed down by a pint of ale from a pewter pot.

A rough crowd had assembled in the street to see the fighting-men go in, and my uncle warned me to look to my pockets as we pushed our way through it. Within was a large room with faded red curtains, a sanded floor, and walls which were covered with prints of pugilists and racehorses. Brown liquor-stained tables were dotted about in it, and round one of these half a dozen formidable-looking men were seated, while one, the roughest of all, was perched upon the table itself, swinging his legs to and fro. A tray of small glasses and pewter mugs stood beside them.

“The boys were thirsty, sir, so I brought up some ale and some liptrap,” whispered the landlord; “I thought you would have no objection, sir.”

“Quite right, Bob! How are you all? How are you, Maddox? How are you, Baldwin? Ah, Belcher, I am very glad to see you.”

The fighting-men rose and took their hats off, except the fellow on the table, who continued to swing his legs and to look my uncle very coolly in the face.

“How are you, Berks?”

“Pretty tidy. ‘Ow are you?”

“Say ‘sir’ when you speak to a genelman,” said Belcher, and with a sudden tilt of the table he sent Berks flying almost into my uncle’s arms.

“See now, Jem, none o’ that!” said Berks, sulkily.

“I’ll learn you manners, Joe, which is more than ever your father did. You’re not drinkin’ black-jack in a boozin’ ken, but you are meetin’ noble, slap-up Corinthians, and it’s for you to behave as such.”

“I’ve always been reckoned a genelmanlike sort of man,” said Berks, thickly, “but if so be as I’ve said or done what I ‘adn’t ought to—

“

“There, there, Berks, that’s all right!” cried my uncle, only too anxious to smooth things over and to prevent a quarrel at the outset of the evening. “Here are some more of our friends. How are you, Apreece? How are you, Colonel? Well, Jackson, you are looking vastly better. Good evening, Lade. I trust Lady Lade was none the worse for our pleasant drive. Ah, Mendoza, you look fit enough to throw your hat over the ropes this instant. Sir Lothian, I am glad to see you. You will find some old friends here.”

Amid the stream of Corinthians and fighting-men who were thronging into the room I had caught a glimpse of the sturdy figure and broad, good-humoured face of Champion Harrison. The sight of him was like a whiff of South Down air coming into that low-roofed, oil-smelling room, and I ran forward to shake him by the hand.

“Why, Master Rodney—or I should say Mr. Stone, I suppose—you’ve changed out of all knowledge. I can’t hardly believe that it was really you that used to come down to blow the bellows when Boy Jim and I were at the anvil. Well, you are fine, to be sure!”

“What’s the news of Friar’s Oak?” I asked eagerly.

“Your father was down to chat with me, Master Rodney, and he tells me that the war is going to break out again, and that he hopes to see you here in London before many days are past; for he is coming up to see Lord Nelson and to make inquiry about a ship. Your mother is well, and I saw her in church on Sunday.”

“And Boy Jim?”

Champion Harrison’s good-humoured face clouded over.

“He’d set his heart very much on comin’ here to-night, but there were reasons why I didn’t wish him to, and so there’s a shadow betwixt us. It’s the first that ever was, and I feel it, Master Rodney. Between ourselves, I have very good reason to wish him to stay with me, and I am sure that, with his high spirit and his ideas, he would never settle down again after once he had a taste o’ London. I left him behind me with enough work to keep him busy until I get back to him.”

A tall and beautifully proportioned man, very elegantly dressed, was strolling towards us. He stared in surprise and held out his hand to my companion.

“Why, Jack Harrison!” he cried. “This is a resurrection. Where in the world did you come from?”

“Glad to see you, Jackson,” said my companion. “You look as well and as young as ever.”

“Thank you, yes. I resigned the belt when I could get no one to fight me for it, and I took to teaching.”

“I’m doing smith’s work down Sussex way.”

“I’ve often wondered why you never had a shy at my belt. I tell you honestly, between man and man, I’m very glad you didn’t.”

“Well, it’s real good of you to say that, Jackson. I might ha’ done it, perhaps, but the old woman was against it. She’s been a good wife to me and I can’t go against her. But I feel a bit lonesome here, for these boys are since my time.”

“You could do some of them over now,” said Jackson, feeling my friend’s upper arm. “No better bit of stuff was ever seen in a twenty-four foot ring. It would be a rare treat to see you take some of these young ones on. Won’t you let me spring you on them?”

Harrison’s eyes glistened at the idea, but he shook his head.

“It won’t do, Jackson. My old woman holds my promise. That’s Belcher, ain’t it—the good lookin’ young chap with the flash coat?”

“Yes, that’s Jem. You’ve not seen him! He’s a jewel.”

“So I’ve heard. Who’s the youngster beside him? He looks a tidy chap.”

“That’s a new man from the West. Crab Wilson’s his name.”

Harrison looked at him with interest. “I’ve heard of him,” said he. “They are getting a match on for him, ain’t they?”

“Yes. Sir Lothian Hume, the thin-faced gentleman over yonder, has backed him against Sir Charles Tregellis’s man. We’re to hear about the match to-night, I understand. Jem Belcher thinks great things of Crab Wilson. There’s Belcher’s young brother, Tom. He’s looking out for a match, too. They say he’s quicker than Jem with the mufflers, but he can’t hit as hard. I was speaking of your brother, Jem.”

“The young ‘un will make his way,” said Belcher, who had come across to us. “He’s more a sparrer than a fighter just at present, but when his gristle sets he’ll take on anything on the list. Bristol’s as full o’ young fightin’-men now as a bin is of bottles. We’ve got two more comin’ up—Gully and Pearce—who’ll make you London milling coves wish they was back in the west country again.”

“Here’s the Prince,” said Jackson, as a hum and bustle rose from the door.

I saw George come bustling in, with a good-humoured smile upon his comely face. My uncle welcomed him, and led some of the Corinthians up to be presented.

“We’ll have trouble, gov’nor,” said Belcher to Jackson. “Here’s Joe Berks drinkin’ gin out of a mug, and you know what a swine he is when he’s drunk.”

“You must put a stopper on ‘im gov’nor,” said several of the other prizefighters. “‘E ain’t what you’d call a charmer when ‘e’s sober, but there’s no standing ‘im when ‘e’s fresh.”

Jackson, on account of his prowess and of the tact which he possessed, had been chosen as general regulator of the whole prizefighting body, by whom he was usually alluded to as the Commander-in-Chief. He and Belcher went across now to the table upon which Berks was still perched. The ruffian’s face was already flushed, and his eyes heavy and bloodshot.

“You must keep yourself in hand to-night, Berks,” said Jackson. “The Prince is here, and—”

“I never set eyes on ‘im yet,” cried Berks, lurching off the table. “Where is ‘e, gov’nor? Tell ‘im Joe Berks would like to do ‘isself proud by shakin’ ‘im