Peregrine, who had entered the saloon as Worth was on the point of leaving, had also been surprised. That his lordship had been indulging in sparring exercise was evident, for he was just coming out of the changing-room, and had paused in the doorway to exchange a few words with Mr. Jackson. He caught sight of Peregrine at the other end of the Saloon, nodded to him, and said: “How does that ward of mine shape, Jackson?”
Jackson glanced over his shoulder. “Sir Peregrine Taverner, my lord? Well, he shows game; always ready to take the lead, you know, but sometimes rather glaringly abroad. Good bottom, but not enough science. Do you care to see him in a round or two?”
“God forbid!” said Worth. “I can well imagine it. Tell me, Jackson, could you lay your hand on a promising young heavyweight who would be glad to earn a little money out of the way—not in the Ring?”
Jackson looked at him rather curiously. “Cribb knows most of the young’uns, my lord. Lads thankful to be fighting for a purse of five guineas—is that it?” Worth nodded. “Any number of them to be found,” Jackson said. “You know that, my lord. But do you stand in need of one?”
“It has just occurred to me that I might,” said the Earl, negligently playing with his gloves. “I’ll see Cribb.” He turned as Colonel Armstrong came out of the changing-room. “Are you ready, Armstrong?”
“I suppose I am,” replied the Colonel, who was looking very hot. “I’ll swear you’ve sweated pounds off me, Jackson. I don’t know how you both contrive to look so cool.”
The ex-champion smiled. “His lordship was taking it very easily today.”
“What, fighting shy?” said the Colonel, with a twinkle.
“No, not shy; just trifling,” said Jackson. “But you should be coming to me more regularly, Colonel. It was bellows to mend with you after three minutes of it, and I don’t like those plunges of yours.”
“Trying to land you a facer, Jackson,” grinned the Colonel.
“You won’t do it like that, sir,” said Jackson, shaking his head. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll go over and set Mr. Fitzjohn to a little singlestick with one of my young men.”
“Oh ay, we’re just off,” said Armstrong. “Are you coming, Worth?”
“Yes, I’m coming,” answered the Earl. He looked at Jackson. “Do what you can with my ward. And, Jackson, by the way—on that other matter, I feel sure I can rely on your discretion.”
“You can always be sure of that, my lord.”
The Earl nodded, and went out with his friend. Mr. Jackson turned his attention to the new-comers, matched Mr. Fitzjohn at singlestick with one of his instructors, and stood critically by while Peregrine, stripped to the waist, hit out at a punchball. He presently took the eager young man on in a sparring match, gave Mr. Fitzjohn a turn, and dismissed them both to cool off.
“Oh, damn it, why can’t I pop in a good one over your guard?” panted Mr. Fitzjohn. “I try hard enough!”
“You don’t try quick enough, Mr. Fitzjohn. You want to look to. your footwork more. I shan’t let you hit me till you deserve to.”
“What about me?” asked Peregrine, wiping the sweat out of his eyes.
“You’re shaping, sir, but you must keep your head more. You rattle in too hard. Go along to the Fives Court next Tuesday for the sparring exhibition, and you’ll see some very pretty boxing there.”
“I can’t,” said Peregrine, draping a towel round his shoulders. “I’m going to the Cock-Pit. The Gentlemen of Yorkshire against the Gentlemen of Kent, for a thousand guineas a side, and forty guineas each battle. You should come, Jackson. I’m fighting a Wednesbury grey—never been beaten!”
“Give me a red pyle!” said Mr. Fitzjohn, “I don’t fancy any of your greys, or blues, or blacks. Red’s the only colour for your true game-cock.”
“Why, good God, Fitz, that’s the greatest piece of nonsense ever I heard? There’s nothing to touch a Wednesbury grey!”
“Except a red pyle,” said Mr. Fitzjohn obstinately.
“There are good cocks of all colours,” interposed Jackson. “I hope yours wins his fight, Sir Peregrine. I’d come, but I’ve promised to help Mr. Jones with the arrangements at the Fives Court.”
The two young men went off to the changing-room together, and forgot their difference of opinion in splashing water over themselves, and being rubbed down by the attendant. But as Peregrine put on his shirt again he recollected the argument sufficiently to invite Mr. Fitzjohn to come to the Cock-Pit Royal on Tuesday and see the match. Mr. Fitzjohn agreed to it very readily, and was only sorry that from the circumstances of his being Sussex-born he could not enter his own red pyle for a battle with Peregrine’s grey. “What’s his weight?” he asked, “Mine turns the scale of four pounds exactly.”
“Mine’s just over,” replied Peregrine. “Three years old, and the sharpest heel you ever saw. My cocker has had him preparing these six weeks. He’s resting him now.” He bethought him of something. “By the by, Fitz, if you should chance to meet my sister you need not mention it to her. She don’t above half like cocking, and I haven’t told her I’ve had my bird brought down from Yorkshire.”
“Lord, I don’t talk about cocking to females, Perry!” said Mr. Fitzjohn scornfully. “I’ll be there on Tuesday. What’s the main?”
“Sixteen.”
“Bad number. Don’t like an even set,” said Mr. Fitzjohn, shaking his head. “Half-past five, I suppose? I’ll meet you there.”
He was not a young gentleman who made a habit of punctuality, but his watch being, unknown to himself, twenty minutes ahead of the correct time, he arrived at the Cock-Pit Royal, in Birdcage Walk, on Tuesday evening just as the cocks were being weighed and matched. He joined Peregrine, and saw the grey taken out of his bag, and looked him over very knowingly. He admitted that he was of strong shape; closely inspected his girth; approved the beam of his leg; and wanted to know whose cock he was matched with.
“Farnaby’s brass-back. It was Farnaby who suggested I might enter my bird, but he’ll make that brass-back look like a dunghill cock, eh, Flood?”
The cocker put the grey back into his bag, and looked dubious. “I don’t know as I’d say just that, sir,” he answered. “He’s in good trim, never better, but we’ll see.”
“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.