Regency Buck (18 page)

“Don’t think much of your bag,” remarked Mr. Fitzjohn, who liked bright colours.

The cocker gave a slow smile. “‘There’ll come a good cock out of a ragged bag,’ sir,” he quoted. “But we’ll see.”

The two young men nodded wisely at the saw, and moved away to take up their places on the first tier of benches. Here they were joined by Mr. Farnaby, who squeezed his way to them, and after a slight altercation prevailed on a middle-aged gentleman in a drab coat to make room for him to sit down beside Peregrine. Behind them the benches were being rapidly filled, and higher still the outer ring of standing room was tightly packed with the rougher members of the crowd. In the centre of the pit was the stage, on which no one but the setters-on was allowed. This was built up a few feet from the ground, covered with a carpet with a mark in the middle, and lit by a huge chandelier hanging immediately above it.

The first fight, which was between two red cocks, only lasted for nine minutes; the second was between a black-grey and a red pyle, and there was some hard hitting in the pit, and a great deal of noisy betting amongst the spectators. During this and the next fight, which was between a duck-winged grey and a red pyle, Peregrine and Mr. Fitzjohn grew much excited, Mr. Fitzjohn betting heavily on the red’s chances, extolling his tactics, and condemning the grey for ogling his opponent too long. Peregrine in honour bound backed the grey to win, and informed Mr. Fitzjohn that crowing was not fighting, and nor was breaking away.

“Breaking away! You’ve never seen a red pyle break away!” said Mr. Fitzjohn indignantly. “There! Look at him! He’s fast in the grey; they’ll have to draw his spurs out.”

The fight lasted for fifteen minutes, both birds being badly mauled; but in the end the red sent the grey to grass, dead, and Mr. Fitzjohn shook a complete stranger warmly by the hand, and said that there was nothing to beat a red pyle.

“Good birds, I don’t deny, but I’ll back my brass-back against any that was ever hatched,” said Mr. Farnaby, overhearing. “You’ll see him floor Taverner’s grey, or my name’s not Ned Farnaby.”

“Well, you’d better be thinking of a new one then, for our fight’s coming on now,” retorted Peregrine.

“Pooh, your bird don’t stand a chance!” scoffed Farnaby.

The setters-on had the cocks in the arena by this time, and Mr. Fitzjohn, critically looking them over, declared there to be very little to choose between them. They were well matched; their heads a full scarlet; tails, manes, and wings nicely clipped; and spurs very long and sharp, hooking well inwards. “If anything I like Taverner’s bird the better of the two,” pronounced Mr. Fitzjohn. “He looks devilish upright, and I fancy he’s the largest in girth. But there ain’t much in it.”

The birds did not ogle each other for long; they closed almost at once, and there was some slashing work which made the feathers fly. The brass-back was floored, but came up again, and toed the scratch. Both birds knew how to hold, and their tactics were cunning enough to rouse the enthusiasm of the crowd. The betting was slightly in favour of the grey, which very much delighted Peregrine, and made Mr. Fitzjohn shake his head, and say that saving only his own red pyle he did not know when he had seen a cock he liked better. Mr. Farnaby did not say anything but looked at Peregrine sideways once or twice and thrust out his under-lip.

The cocks had been fighting for about ten minutes when the brass-back, who had till now adopted more defensive tactics than the grey, suddenly rushed in, striking and slashing in famous style. The grey responded gallantly, and Mr. Fitzjohn cried out: “The best matched pair I ever saw! There they go, slap for slap! I’ll lay you any odds the grey wins! No, by God, he’s down! Ha, spurs fast again!”

The setters-on having secured their birds, and the brass-back’s spurs being released, both were again freed. The grey seemed to be a little dazed, the brass-back hardly less so. Both were bleeding from wounds, and neither seemed anxious to close again with his opponent. They stayed warily apart, ogling each other while the timekeeper kept the count, and fifty being reached before either showed any disposition to continue fighting, setting was allowed. The setters-on each took up his bird and brought him to the centre of the arena, and placed him beak to beak with the other. The grey was the first to strike, a swift, punishing blow that knocked the brass-back clean away.

A sudden commotion arose amongst the spectators. Mr. Farnaby sprang up, shouting “A foul! A foul! The grey was squeezed!”

Someone called out: “Nonsense! No such thing! Sit down!”

Peregrine swung around to stare at Farnaby. “He was not squeezed! I was watching the whole time, and I’m ready to swear my man did no more than set him!”

The setters-on, pending the referee’s decision, had each caught his bird, a lucky circumstance for the brass-back, who seemed to have been badly cut up by the last blow. The referee gave it in favour of the grey, and Mr. Fitzjohn said testily: “Of course the grey was not squeezed! Sit down, man, sit down! Hey, no wonder your cock’s shy! I believe the grey got his eye in that last brush. Perry, that’s a rare bird of yours! We’ll match him with mine one day, down at my place. Ha, that finishes it! The brass-back’s a blinker now—or dead. Dead, I think. Well done, Perry! Well done!”

Mr. Farnaby turned with an ugly look on his face. “Ay, well done indeed! Your cock was craven, and was squeezed to make him fight.”

“Here, I say, Farnaby, learn to take your losses!” said Mr. Fitzjohn with strong disapproval.

Peregrine, a gathering frown on his boyish countenance, lifted a hand to hush his friend, and fixed his eyes on Farnaby’s. “You can’t know what you’re saying. If there was a fault the referee must have seen it.”

“Oh,” said Farnaby, with a sneer, “when rich men fight their cocks referees can sometimes make mistakes.”

It was not said loud enough to carry very far, but it brought Peregrine to his feet in a bound. “What!” he cried furiously. “Say that again if you dare!”

Though no one but those immediately beside Farnaby could have heard his words, it was quite apparent to everyone by this time that an altercation was going on, and the rougher part of the gathering at once began to take sides, some (who had lost their money on the brass-back) loudly asserting that the grey had been squeezed, and others declaring with equal fervour that it had been a fair fight. Above the hubbub a shrill Cockney voice besought Peregrine to darken Mr. Farnaby’s daylights—advice of which he did not seem to stand in much need, for he was clenching his fists very menacingly already.

Mr. Fitzjohn, who had also heard Farnaby’s last speech, tried to get between him and Peregrine, saying in a brisk voice: “That’s enough of this foolery. You’re foxed, Farnaby. Ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Oh, I’m foxed, am I?” said Farnaby, keeping his eyes on Peregrine’s. “I’m not so foxed but what I can see when a bird’s pressed to make him fight, and I repeat, Sir Peregrine Taverner, that money can do queer things if you have enough of it.”

“Oh, damn!” said Mr. Fitzjohn, exasperated. “Pay no heed to him, Perry.”

Peregrine, however, had not waited for this advice. As Mr. Fitzjohn spoke he drove his left in a smashing blow to Farnaby’s face, and sent that gentleman sprawling over the bench. There were a great many cheers, a shout of “A mill, a mill!” some protests from the quieter members of the audience; and the man in the drab coat, across whose knees Mr. Farnaby had fallen, demanded that the Watch should be summoned.

Mr. Farnaby picked himself up, and showed the house a bleeding nose. The same voice which had counselled Peregrine to strike shouted gleefully: “Drawn his cork! Fib him, guv’nor! Let him have a bit of home-brewed!”

Mr. Farnaby held his handkerchief to his nose and said: “My friend will call on yours in the morning, sir! Be good enough to name your man!”

“Fitz?” said Peregrine curtly, over his shoulder.

“At your service,” replied Mr. Fitzjohn.

“Mr. Fitzjohn will act for me, sir,” said Peregrine, pale but perfectly determined.

“You will hear from me, sir,” promised Farnaby thickly, and strode out, still holding his reddened handkerchief to his nose.

Chapter X

Mr. Fitzjohn, breakfasting in his lodgings in Cork Street next morning, wore an unusually sober expression on his face, and when his man came in to inform him that a gentleman had called he got up from the table with a sigh and a shake of his head.

The gentleman’s card, which Mr. Fitzjohn held between his finger and thumb, told him very little. The name was unknown to him, and the address, which was a street in the labyrinth lying between Northumberland House and St. James’s Square, did not impress him favourably.

Captain Crake was ushered into the room, and Mr. Fitzjohn, with a shrewdness belied by his cherubic countenance, instantly decided that his military rank was self-bestowed. He was displeased. He had been brought up by a careful father with a nice regard for etiquette, and one glance at Captain Crake was sufficient to convince him that he was not one whom any gentleman would desire to have for a second in an affair of honour. The first duty of a second was to seek a reconciliation; it was evident that Captain Crake had no such thought in mind. He came only to arrange a place and a time of meeting, and to choose on behalf of his principal pistols for weapons.

To this Mr. Fitzjohn agreed, but when the Captain, assuming Mr. Farnaby to have been the injured party, stipulated for a range of twenty-five yards he unhesitatingly refused to consent to it. Such a range must be all in favour of the more experienced duellist, and however many wafers Peregrine might be able to culp at Manton’s Gallery, Mr. Fitzjohn felt reasonably certain that he had not before been engaged in an actual duel.

He would not consent, and upon the Captain’s attempting to take a high hand with him, said bluntly that he could by no means agree that Mr. Farnaby was the injured party. Sir Peregrine had indeed struck the blow, but the provocation had been strong.

After some argument the Captain gave way on this point, and a range of twelve yards was agreed to. There could be no further hope of reconciliation. Mr. Fitzjohn, well versed in the Code of Honour, was aware that no apology could be extended or received after a blow, and Captain Crake’s attitude now convinced him that, however much Mr. Farnaby might know himself to have been in the wrong, no dependence could be placed on his tacitly acknowledging it on the ground by
deloping
,
or firing into the air.

When Captain Crake had been shown out of the room Mr. Fitzjohn did not immediately resume his interrupted meal, but stood instead staring gloomily into the fire. Though not particularly acquainted with Mr. Farnaby, he knew him a little by repute. The man was a hanger-on to the fringes of society, and was generally to be seen in the company of raw young men of fortune. His reputation was not good. Nothing was precisely known against him, but he had been mixed up in more than one discreditable affair, and was known to be a crack shot. Mr. Fitzjohn did not anticipate a fatal outcome to the following day’s meeting: the consequences would be too serious, he thought; but he was not perfectly at his ease. Farnaby had not been drunk, nor had there been the least sign of foul play in the Cock-Pit. It looked suspiciously as though this quarrel had been thrust on Peregrine. Yet he could find no object in it, and was forced to conclude that he was indulging a mere flight of fancy. As soon as he had finished his breakfast he picked up his hat and gloves and set out to walk the short distance to Brook Street. Arriving at the Taverners’ house he sent in his name and was taken immediately upstairs to Peregrine’s bedroom.

Peregrine was still engaged in the arduous task of dressing, and was anxiously arranging his cravat when Mr. Fitzjohn came in. He said cheerfully: “Sit down, Fitz, and don’t move, don’t speak till I’ve done with this neck-cloth!”

Mr. Fitzjohn obeyed, choosing a chair from which he could observe his friend’s struggles. Having guessed that the next morning’s meeting would be Peregrine’s first, he was very well satisfied with his careless unconcern. It was evident that he would have nothing to blush for in his principal; the lad was game as a pebble. He was not to know with what desperate courage Peregrine had forced himself to utter his cheerful greeting, nor how many sleepless hours he had spent during the night.

The cravat being at last adjusted Peregrine dismissed his valet, and turned. “Well, have you arranged it all, Fitz?” he asked.

“To-morrow at eight, Westbourn Green,” said Mr. Fitzjohn briefly. “I’ll call for you.”

Peregrine had the oddest sensation that none of this was really happening. He heard his own voice, surprisingly steady, say: “Westbourn Green? Is that near Paddington?”

Mr. Fitzjohn nodded. “Are you a good shot, Perry? The fellow’s chosen pistols.”

“You have seen me at Manton’s—or have you not?”

“I haven’t seen you at Manton’s, but I’ve seen Farnaby,” said Mr. Fitzjohn rather grimly. “You’ll keep a cool head, won’t you, Perry, and remember it’s everything to be quick off the mark?”

There was an unpleasant dryness in Peregrine’s mouth, but he said with a good attempt at nonchalance: “Of course. I shan’t aim to kill him, however.”

“No, don’t,” agreed Mr. Fitzjohn. “Not that I think he means to make it a killing matter either. I can’t see why he should. He’d have to make a bolt for it if he did, and I fancy that wouldn’t suit him. What are you doing to-day?”

Peregrine achieved a shrug of the shoulders. “Oh, the usual round, my dear fellow! I am engaged to dine at the Star, I believe. I daresay we shall look in at the play, and sup at the Piazza afterwards.”

“You’ll do,” said Mr. Fitzjohn approvingly. “But see it ain’t a boozy party, and don’t sit up too late. I’m off to engage a surgeon now. I daresay we shan’t need him, but he’ll have to be there. I like that waistcoat you have on.”

“Yes, I flatter myself it’s uncommonly handsome,” replied Peregrine. He moistened his lips. “Fitz, I have suddenly remembered—do you know, I believe I have no duelling pistols by me?”