Black Ajax (24 page)

Molineaux, I maintain,
beat
Cribb! Curse me if he did not!

PADDINGTON JONES,
resumed

His Royal Highness said that, sir? Then God bless him for an honest man and a true sportsman – aye, and a proper Englishman! Would to God he had been at the ringside, so we might ha' had fair play. I choke to this day when I think on it, and feel the red rage I felt then.

“You, you lousy thieving son of a bitch!” I told Joe Ward. “By God, the difference 'tween you and Dick Turpin is that he wore a mask! You're a damned chousing cheat, and to hell wi' you!”

“On my oath, Pad, Buck Flashman swore he saw you slip the bullets!” cries he.

“You lie, you bastard!” says I, tho' on reflection I'm not sure as he did. “Damn you all to hell, you and Gully and Cribb, for you're the first that ever stole the Championship of England!”

And that was the God's truth, of Ward, anyway, and no doubt Buckley Flashman. They were the cheats, and Cribb had the benefit. Tom Molineaux, my Tom, won the title that day, and all the world saw it, and more than one thought shame for the honour of the game, aye, and more than the game. “A black day for England, this,” I heard one say, and another cried: “Bad work, bad work! The black deserved better.” There were more'n a few frowns and shaken heads among the Fancy, and voices to echo what you tell me the Prince maintained. Aye, Molineaux
beat
Cribb indeed, damme if he did not.

Some held otherwise, course they did, and you may think, sir, that there was summat in what they said. One Corinthian, I mind, swore that a mill was ended only when one o' the fighters owned himself beat. “The nigger it was who cried enough, not Cribb,” says he. “And what o' the rules, sir?” cries another. “Cribb did not answer – nay,
could
not answer – when time was called, and so forfeited the match!” “Come, sir, he answered in the end!” says the first buck. “Would ye strip the man of his laurels for a matter of a few seconds?” “Aye, if he broke the rule!” retorts the other. “Damnation, sir, what are rules for?” A third opined that by the
letter
o' the law it might be said that
Molineaux had won, “but by its
spirit
Cribb was the better man, and I for one am proud of him, begad!”

I reckon that was the general opinion, among the public, who were behind Cribb to a man and not inclined to question the outcome. The professional millers said naught to me, and I didn't ask 'em, but I reckon Big Bob Gregson spoke for more'n a few by what he
did
. He'd wagered a cool thousand guineas on Cribb, but asked only for his stake to be returned: the winnings, sir, he would not touch, and what d'ye make o' that?

At all events, 'twas over and done, and no sense repining, or blaming Jackson, or Apreece, or anyone except those two dirty villains aforementioned. I could ha' swung for the pair of 'em, but, d'ye know, sir, when my first wrath had passed I could find consolation, too. In a few months I'd trained a raw black clown to hold his own – and better! – with the best Champion the game had ever seen. Fair's fair, mind. Cribb was not in primest twig. He'd counted Tom too cheap, wasn't better'n three-quarters trained, and should ha' milled on the retreat earlier than he did. It was the wind and rain that saved him. If Tom had had the sun on his body, Cribb would not have lasted to the half-hour. That boded well for the future; next time, thinks I, we'll meet Master Cribb in summer.

My one fear was that Tom might have been sickened. He'd had the damnedest melting – Egan reckoned it was the bloodiest, cruellest mill that ever was – and I've seen good men spoiled for keeps by less punishment than he'd taken that day. Both his ogles was swollen closed, his nose split in two places, a gash from his lower lip nigh to his chin, one ear part torn away, and the rest of his nob cut and rasped and bloody as raw liver. God, that right hand of Cribb's was a terrible thing! Tom's body was one mighty bruise, but at least no ribs was broke.

'Twas small comfort that Cribb, by what I'd seen, was in no better case. But he had suffered it all afore, and come again; the only way to sicken the Cribbs o' this world is to kill 'em. But Tom I was not sure of, and when we'd cleaned and stitched and tended him and put some soft peck and spirits into him, and settled him on cushions at the inn, and he was in his right mind again, I was all eyes to see how he might be. If he had gone into the blues, and moped silent, as I'd
seen so many do, I'd ha' known that here was another promising chicken gone, but God be thanked that was not his sort at all.

Sir, he was like a wild beast! He raved, and whined, and swore, and damned if he didn't pipe his eye, and when he heard the Bristol boys downstairs hurrahing and cheering Cribb, it was all I could do to prevent him having at 'em. “They cheated me! They done robbed me!” bawls he, over and over, and beat his fists that were red raw in their swaddling, and flung himself about so far as he was able, what with his pain. “Ah beat him! Ah beat him! Yuh-all
knows
Ah beat him!” He plumps down in a chair, wi' the tears running down his swollen black face. “Oh, Pad! How c'd they cheat me thataway? Oh, Bill, Ah beat him!”

Richmond hadn't said above six words since the fight, he'd been that heart-sick, but now he was just fagged out and quiet, setting at the table with his hands clasped on the board.

“No, Tom,” says he. “You didn't beat him. 'Member I told you, th'only way to do that was to put him cold to sleep.”

“He din't come to scratch!” wails Tom. “That sunnabitch Joe Ward bought him time! Ain't that so?”

“ 'Tis so,” says Bill.

“An' Ah had him down more'n a half-minnit! That's the rule, an' he din't make it to time!”

“Maybe not,” says Bill, “but then he got up, an' started to fight, like I said he would. He didn't quit.” I knew what he was thinking, sir: Tom was the one who'd said he could fight no more.

I guess perhaps Tom knew it, too, for he changed his tack. “'Twarn't
fair
! Ah had cramps wi' the cold, ma laigs wudn't answer! An' they cheated me! Lissen 'em singin' an' rejoicin', the lyin', gammonin', cheatin' bastards! Ah jes' hope they satisfied the way they won – chea-tin' me!”

“Guess they are,” nods Bill, studying his hands. “But I know one man who ain't … an' that's Tom Cribb.”

Tom left off sniffing. “Whut you mean?”

Richmond gave him a thoughtful look. “I mean he wants your hide, boy.” He let it sink into Tom's mind, and leaned forward across the table. “'Fore today, he didn't reckon you worth a peck o' coon-shit. Well, now he knows better … an', boy, he wants you real bad!”

You never saw a man's mood change so fast; I could have laughed to see the shades run o'er Tom's phiz – misery, astonishment, and then a great blaze of hope, sir, as if he'd seen a wonder. He almost threw himself at Richmond.

“You mean … Ah kin git a re-turn? He fight me agin?” He stared from Bill to me, the joy fair bursting out of him.

“He can't do other,” says Bill. “Ain't that so, Pad?”

“The country won't let him,” says I. “And he's a proud man, is Tom Cribb. Aye, you lost, Tom, but you gave him such a pasting as he never had before – and he don't like what happened in the thirty-first round any more'n we do. He'll give you a return – and then, watch out!”

Tom gave a great whoop and fell back in his chair, limbs all a-sprawl. He shook his fists, beaming.

“Hallelujah!” roars he. “Oh, great day! When, Bill, when? Oh, Bill, Pad, Ah swear Ah lick him nex' time! Ah
knows
Ah kin, honnist to Jesus! I
knew
it today, when him an' me was out theah! Ah got his measure! Oh, Ah knows how good he is – man, Ah din't think they was such a millin' cove in creation … but Ah's bettah!
Ah kin lick him!
”

That was when I knew for certain that we had a real miller on our hands, sir – a match for the Cribb he'd fought that day, and even for the Cribb who would come at him the second time. He'd forgot his hurts, his disappointment, and his rage all in a trice, so full of joy was he – at the prospect of doing it all over again! But, bless you, every good pug is dicked in the nob, or he'd not be a pug in the first place.

Even Bill had it in him to smile at so much eagerness. “Yes, you can lick him. You did … for a while. An' maybe Tom Cribb taught you sump'n today … what makes a champion, more'n any skill or strength or speed. Yes, sir – how to get up again. That's what you got to do now, the sooner the better. Moment we're back in Town, you'll write a challenge in the press.”

Tom's face fell again. “You know Ah cain't write!”

“I can,” says Bill, “and Pierce Egan'll do the flowery bits. You can make your mark … and then, Tom, my boy, you can learn to be a slave again, with Paddington Jones as your task-master!”

To Mr Thomas Cribb, St Martin's Street, Leicester Square,
December 21, 1810

Sir,

My friends think that had the weather on last Tuesday, the day on which I contended with you, not been so unfavourable, I should have won the battle; I therefore challenge you to a second meeting, at any time within two months, for such sum as those gentlemen who place confidence in me may be pleased to arrange.

As it is possible this letter may meet the public eye, I cannot omit the opportunity of expressing a confident hope, that the circumstance of my being of a different colour to that of a people amongst whom I have sought protection, will not in any way operate to my prejudice.

I am, sir,

Your most obedient humble servant,

T. MOLINEAUX

PIERCE EGAN,
interpolated

… It was
all up
with Rimmer, who retreated to every part of the ring, closely followed by Molineaux, who put in a dreadful stomacher, which
floored
him. A scene now took place which beggared all description, during [which] Rimmer lay prostrate on the ground, the ring was broken, owing, it is said, from the antipathy felt against a
man of colour
proving the conqueror – if it was so, the illiberal were disappointed by this manoeuvre, as those who had taken the odds gained nothing by the event. Rimmer was completely exhausted, almost in a state of insensibility. It would have been a fine subject for the pencil of Hogarth to have delineated – here were
Corinthians
and
Coster-mongers
in rude contact;
Johnny-Raws
and first-rate
Swells
jostling each other; Pugilists and
Novices
, all jawing, threatening, but no hearing – the confusion was beyond every thing, sticks and whips at work in all directions, ten thousand people in one rude commotion, and those persons in the interior of this vast assemblage suffering from their attempts to extricate themselves from so perilous and unpleasant a situation. Twenty minutes elapsed in this
chaotic
manner, till the Champion of England, assisted by some brave fellows, once more formed something like a ring. Molineaux and Rimmer again
set to
, but it proved a short-lived advantage to the latter, notwithstanding extraordinary exertions were made to renovate Rimmer, to make him stand upon his legs. It was all in vain, during six more rounds Rimmer was so severely
punished
as to be unable to stand up, when he acknowledged he had received
enough
!

BOB GREGSON,
resumed

So that was that, and that was a' – and enough, I'll tell thee! It was a lesson to me. I should never ha' made the match, for it broke the boy, and he ne'er fought again that I heerd on. But man, how was I to knaw that I was pittin' him 'gainst a miller that the best on God's earth couldna ha' stood up to, let alone a green lad? I tell thee straight, if Molineaux had fought like yon at Copthorn, we'd ha' had a black champion of England. Now, then! I said as much to Cribb, and a', and he gi'ed us his nod, solemn like, and says: “Aye, like enough … if I'd let him.”

I'll tell thee summat else. Cribb saved the nigger's life that day at Moulsey, when they broke the ring. Man, they'd ha' killed him, for they were run mad wi' rage, hollerin' to be at him wi' sticks and clubs and owt they could lay hand on, and umpires and seconds and a' swept aside, and the poor bloody darkie kicked and trampled nigh to bits 'til Cribb and the vinegars threw back the press and dragged him clear! Pad Jones reckoned Cribb levelled more fellers that day than in a' his mills put together.

Aye, weel, we live and larn. Two hoondred quid that mill cost us, 'tween the stake and the blunt I was daft enough to wager on Rimmer. A' the benefit I had was the privilege o' watching Molineaux at work; he was a canny fibber. Mind you, if I'd been Cribb I'd ha' let 'em stamp the black booger six feet oonder.

Ha-ha! Aye, Cribb showed us the black's letter, asked us what it might mean. “It means tha'd best get thasel' fit, man!” I told him. “Did I not warn thee what'd coom on't if ye met the nigger half-trained? Man, ye were fatter'n a pregnant pig, and think thasel' lucky he did not flatten thee! He's a canny miller, the same feller, an' if tha's not doon to thurteen stone when ye coom to scratch wi' him again, God help thee. I lost a good thoosand guineas as I'd ha' won but for thy guzzlin', ye big-bellied booger! Fat, man – I say ye were fat!”

“I hear ye!” snaps he, short as ever. “But what's his ‘different colour' to do wi’ me?”

“Nowt,” says I. “That's to the Fancy's address, man, not thine. He's tellin' 'em, polite-like, that he doesna want 'em cryin' ‘Away, ye black bastard!' when he gits in't ring. But what noo, Tom? Wilt put thasel’ in trim, an' meet him again?”

“I will, tho' I'd as soon not,” says he, scratchin' at the stitches on his clock – man, ye'd ha' thowt he'd been shaved by a barber's drunk 'prentice. “That black's a fibber,” says he. “It were a dear-bought three hundred quid. Nay, I grow old, Bob. Win or lose, 'twill be my last mill.”

“Git oot, man, is that the way to talk? ‘Me last mill’, as tho' ye were sixty! Ye're but a lad yet,” says I, “an' look ye here, Tom Cribb – git thasel' in fettle, an' the black'll not stand twenty minutes wi' thee, good miller an' all as he is! What? Git tha head up, man! We're coontin' on thee!”

“I'll never quit to him, at all events,” says he, and that was a' I could get from him. Mind you, he was ever a quiet 'un, was Tom, but ye'd ha' looked for more spirit in him, would ye not, an' a sharp answer to the nigger's challenge? Nay, but he hung back on that,
turned a stopped lug to a' inquiries, and put it aboot that he'd no inclination to fight! I wondered at the man – aye, and if the larrupin' at Copthorn had given him his fill. God knows he'd got no profit from it, while the black had larned wi' every blow. And tho' he'd been beat, Molineaux was the cocksurest dandyprat still.

'Twas aboot six weeks after Copthorn that the patrons gi'ed Cribb a benefit at Fives Court. The whole Fancy was theer, three thoosand on 'em, young Queensberry, Sefton and Craven and them, a' the top millers, Cribb his sel', and Power and Richmond and Tom Belcher (but not Jem, who had fell oot wi' Cribb) and Jones and Ben Burn and Cropley and Mendoza and O'Donnell … oh, aye, and Molineaux, a' sauce and swagger. He was figged oot like a May Day cuddy, wi' a collar that high his chin was wheer his neb should ha' been, silk coat, roofles, a lace hanky in's cuff, and mair rings than a Haymarket hoor. Aye, and scented, an a'.

But this was the thing – ye'd ha' thought from his gait that Copthorn had never happened, or, if it had, that he'd won it! It was: “Ah! How-de-do, Mistah Cribb!”, wi' a lordly smile and compliments on his benefit, and a few pleasantries aboot their mill – but not a word o' Joe Ward's antics, no 'plaints, and never a mention o' his challenge that still waited an answer. Talk aboot genteel; ye'd ha' thought he was the Duke o' Clarence.

Cribb spoke him civil and steady as ever, but 'twas the black that had the ease and settled way wi' him. I tell thee, viewin' the pair o' them, ye'd ha' said from his airs 'twas Molineaux was the Champion.

He acted it on't stage, and a', when he had the mufflers on wi' young Tom Belcher, laughin' and sparrin' at half-pace – and, man, even at that he fair danced him dizzy. Tom Belcher, ye know, took ower my chophouse afore I went to Ireland, and was used to say that in twenty year o' prize-fightin', he'd never been so foundered as in that brief breather wi' the black, “for I swear, Bob, I did not touch him above twice, and his left played rat-a-tat-tat on my nob like a woodpecker, as he chose.”

Now, it happened that day I'd brought forrard a young feller, Rimmer, that I had an interest in, him being Northcoontry like mesel'. He made a good figure at the benefit, sparrin' wi' Cropley, and the
Fancy swore he were a prime chicken. Well, by and by up to me comes Bill Richmond, and after a bit crack he asked, had I a match in mind for the boy? Hollo, thinks I, what's i' the wind here? I said, maybe aye, maybe no, and what was't to him?

“Would ye have him go 'gainst Molineaux, mebbe?” says Bill.

“What the hell are ye talkin' aboot, man?” says I. “Thy lad's lookin' for a return wi' Cribb!”

“I'm weary waitin' on Cribb,” says he. “He don't answer, and my Tom's gettin' stale. I want to keep him sharp, and seems to me Rim-mer'd be a match, while Cribb's makin' up his mind.”

“Coom up, Bill,” says I, “that's a reet Banbury tale!” For who that had a challenge laid wi' the Champion would bother wi' a novice? “Are ye scorched, or what?” Ye see, I'd heerd word that Richmond had plunged at Copthorn, and his pockets was to let.

“Never mind that,” says he. “Well, truth is we're bound to meet Cribb wi'in two months of acceptance, and blow me if I want to see Tom fight him in the month o' March –'twill be bitter cold as December, likely! But if you'll make us a match wi' Rimmer
afore
Cribb answers, why, when he does we can postpone legitimate and Tom can fight Cribb in summer. What say, Bob?”

He was a reet fly 'un, was he not? Well, 'twas good sense for him – and good business for me. Match-makin' was ever my game, and 'twould be a grand advance for young Rimmer to fight Molineaux, whose name was on every lip. Mind you, the black would mill him fra Hell to Huddersfield, but what o' that? The lad had his name to make, and he'd go broody on me if I denied him a tilt at the man who'd gone thurty roonds wi' the Champion. Aye, and the green fairy circle's a chancy place: many a novice has upset the odds, and young Rimmer might be one o' the lucky 'uns.

“What does Pad Jones think?” says I.

“When I want to know, I'll ask him,” says Richmond, mighty short – and I wondered at that, and a'.

‘Canst stand good for a hoondred guineas a side?” I asked him, and he swore he'd raise the wind, so we shook hands on't then and theer, and when I told Rimmer he danced on his hat for joy.

I wondered how Cribb might take it, but it made no matter to him. He cared not tuppence when he fought the black, or if he ne'er fought
him at a’; he was content to let the challenge lie until after Molineaux had met Rimmer. Aye, and Richmond was in no haste now that he'd put Cribb off 'til summer; May, says he, would be soon enough for the mill wi' my lad – as I'd suspicioned, he
was
short o' brass, and worse, he was in debt to the Land o' Judah, and vexed how to clear himsel'. 'Twas rumoured that even the Prad and Swimmer was
poulticed
, but I know nowt o' that.

So what does he do but take the black to tour the country, wi' exhibitions o' the Manly Art, and sparrin' matches, and showin' his man off to the gapeseeds at markets and holidays for a tanner a time. Molineaux was a canny wrestler as well as a miller, and there was no lack o' farm loons and sojers and daft hicks eager to try a fall or put on't mufflers wi' the famous blackamoor. 'Twas easy fare for Molineaux to topple 'em, tho' for the most part I reckon they was satisfied to see him strike a pose, bare to the brisket, for the half o' them had never seen a nigger afore.

Now, this way o' goin' on was weel enough to get them a livin' and steer Richmond clear o' Point Nonplus, wi' a dollop put by for the Rimmer stake and expenses – but 'twas no life for a fighter, I can tell thee. He needs to be settled, man, and reg'lar, and kept hard at the bit in trainin'. They say Molineaux had been bad enough to manage afore, but from a' I heerd he was ten times worse on that tour, traipsin' fra toon to toon, wi' the folk gawkin' at him, and him up to a' larks at a' hours, seldom sober, beddin' every mollisher that offered, and splashin' his rhino on fancy toggery and toys and whatever trash took his fancy.

To make bad worse, Pad Jones parted fra him in disgoost at the way he was kickin' up and wastin' his self, and Richmond not able to rein him in. By what Pad told me later, Richmond had vowed that Molineaux would be kept to the collar and no liberties, but when it came to it, he let the black have his wilful way for fear he'd lose him; there was high words among the three o' them, and Pad packed his ditty and bade them fareweel. In his stead, Richmond brought in two reet flash
gills
, Abner Gray and Joe Ward – aye, that verra same Joe Ward that had humbugged Jackson aboot the bullets at Copthorn! Never ask me how Richmond came to make his peace wi' that 'un, or coaxed Molineaux into usin' him to spar wi', but so it was. Worse yoke-fellers for a fighter ye could not find, but they came cheap likely,
and Bill would be coontin' his coppers. I wouldna gi' the reek off my dottle for the pair o' them!

When I heerd o' the way Molineaux was carryin' on wi' the
bub
and the
burricks
, and that Pad Jones had washed his hands of him, I says to mesel', Bob, I says, if ye miss this chance ye're a cloot-bobby. Straight I went to Pad and offered him the trainin' o' Rimmer. First off he shook his head, sayin' he didna like.

“What's likin' to do wi' it? Ye trained the black for Richmond, what hinders thee to train Rimmer for me?”

“ 'Twould go 'gainst the grain, Bob,” says he, doubtful. “If 'twere against any other fighter, I'd say aye and gladly, but not against Tom Molineaux.”

“What the hell, man! Are ye feared Molineaux'll leather my chap, is that what ails thee?”

“If he does, and 'tis Lombard Street to a China orange he will,” says Pad, “'twill be because Tom's the fighter
I
made him – and made Champion o' England, if he had his rights. Nay, Bob, how could I train another milling-
gloak
'gainst him?”

“Weel, Pad, I thought ye were a professional man,” says I. “But since ye've gone soft on the nigger, seemin'ly, we'll say nae mair.”

He swore he was not soft, but no turncoat, either – which was a daft start, for in those days milling men were wont to hold the bottle and give the knee against their best friends even, in the way o' business, and no hard feelings. It was the professional way, man, and none knew it better than Pad. I let it lie, while he pulled his lip, considerin', and he hemmed and hawed and then laughed and said, well enough, he'd take charge o' Rimmer. I asked why he laughed, and he said the fact was he couldna abide to be awa' fra the ringside when the black was fightin'. Did ye ever hear the like, eh? “But I'll do my best for your lad, Bob, never doubt it,” says he, and gave me his hand. I knew he was straight, and my hopes went cockahoop high, for Rimmer would have the best knee in the game, and one that knew Molineaux like a book.

“Reet, my lad,” I told Rimmer, “ye'll be on't road every day by six, get half a stone o' rump inside thee at noon, skip and lift and thresh that bag 'til tha's baked, Pad'll coach and breathe thee reg'lar, and by God we'll startle the nigger yet!” The lad went to work like
a navvy, wi' Jack Power the Irish plumber as partner, and wi' Pad's guidance he shaped better'n ever I could ha' hoped. He had a miller's head on him, and was big and strong and speedy, and larned quick. Pad put him up to a' the dodges the black favoured – how he played at the head, so his left must be weel stopped, and that he favoured Mendoza's guard, but lost patience if his man milled on the retreat, and might be weel punished wi' a one-two stomacher, and all o' that.

Aye, Rimmer shaped reet handy, and a few there were who said he had the makin's o' another Jem Belcher. Cribb himsel' came to see him spar, and put the mitts on wi' him, and was weel pleased. Aha, Tom, thinks I, d'ye hope to see Rimmer do thy work for thee? Others wondered, too, and the buzz was that 'twould be grand if Rimmer should be next to bid for the Championship, as must surely follow if he beat Molineaux.

For the black was become badly liked since Copthorn. He was that cocksure and impident, and cut such a figure in his flash duds, and gave offence by his goings on, what wi' the sprees on his coontry jaunt, and he was foreign, and black – and ower a' that, he'd put the fear o' God into the Fancy by his showin' 'gainst Cribb. They dearly hoped that Rimmer might cut his comb for him, and never did a novice get such a cheer as went up fra the ten thoosand at Moulsey Hurst when my lad threw his shap over the ropes on the day.

Molineaux, for a' the lush and trollops he'd been trainin' on, looked better than I liked, bar a bit o' belly on him, and the odds were three to one for him when they went to the scales. Richmond and Bill Gibbons 'tended him, and didna Richmond glower when Pad Jones stepped up as leadin' counsel for Rimmer? Not the black, though; he laughed and clapped Pad on the back, and bade him tell Rimmer to watch oot for his left hand.

Aye, weel, we live and larn. For a' the good Pad's trainin' and advice was, Rimmer might as well ha' had Boney's mother in his corner. I saw my hoondred guineas fly awa' in the furst roond, when Molineaux saunters oot on his heels, smilin' and sparrin' easy, 'ticed my lad to let go wi' both hands, and flattened him wi' that same left. Four to one, and they'd barely set to when Molineaux put in left and right, and doon goes Rimmer a second time. And then a thurd, and a fourth, and damn my skin, the same tale for eight roonds. The boy
made play game enough, but knew no more o' distance than a blin' beggar, while Molineaux stood off laughin' at him, made his stops as though he were pattin' flies awa', grinned a' ower his ugly black dial as he picked his marks, and when he struck, Rimmer went doon like a man shot.

By God, it galled the crowd, the way yon nigger strutted and smiled and tret the lad like a clodpole. There wasna a sound bar a groan whenever Rimmer went to grass, and wi' a bare ten minutes run he was a woeful sight, spoutin' claret like a cloudburst and fair
dozzened
by the hammerin'. I doot if any but Jones could ha' kept him on his gams, but after the eighth he shook his head at me. “The boy's foundered,” says he. “I can do naught for him.”

I asked Rimmer would he give up, and damme if he didna rally and rattle the nigger's nob, and milled him back, but Blackee weathered it, fibbed him doon yet again, and then set oot to pay him back. I never saw such savage millin', for noo Molineaux stretched himsel' and went after Rimmer like a tiger, fibbin' him a' roond the ring, feet and fists flyin' too fast to follow. Man, he was a grand miller, the black! Rimmer was game, but the crowd thought nowt o' him, but gave a' their voice in yells and curses and threats at Molineaux, shakin' their clubs and sticks, and I heered Cribb tell Baldwin, who had charge o' the vinegars, to look to the outer ring. The nigger never heeded the cat-calls, but floored Rimmer twice again, wi' the mob uglier by the minute, and when the lad, half-gone and oot o' his wits wi' pain, wrestled him Lancashire style below the waist and threw him foul, there was sic a hollerin' cheer that the umpires darsn't say bo! Again Molineaux floored him, again Rimmer threw him foul, and now I saw the black set himsel' to finish it for good and a' …