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4–6(/
R O D N E Y Q Q.
Q Q S T O N E
B Y A. C. O N A N DO Y L E
I L L U S T R A T E D
L ON DO N
S M IT H , E L D E R & CO.
15, WATERLoo PLACE

I9 o'





PREFACE TO THE AUTHOR'S
EDITION
IT might seem pedantic if the author of a his-
torical romance were to quote the authorities
which have helped him to reconstruct the age of
which he writes. It would be unfair, however,
not to acknowledge the obligations which I owe
to Mr. John Ashton’s “Social Pictures of the
Beginning of the Century.” Also to Jesse's
“Brummell,” Fitzgerald's “George the Fourth,”
Gronow’s “Reminiscences,” “Boxiana,” “Pugil-
istica,” Harper's “Brighton Road,” Robinson's
“Last Earl of Barrymore” and “Old Q,” Rice's
“History of the Turf,” and Tristram's “Coaching
Days.”
I will not apologize for making so much of my
story revolve around the prize-ring, for my opin-
ion of that institution is sufficiently expressed in
the text. It fell into deserved disrepute through
the corruption which came upon the fighting
men, and through the villanies of the obscene
crowd of parasites and betting men who gathered
round it. Already in 1804 such scenes were
possible as the breaking up of the fight between
“Crab" Wilson and Harrison—the first signs of
V


PREFACE
the decay which was destined to permeate the
whole. But in that fighting age, when the very
existence of the country depended upon the
rough valour of her sons, everything which made
for hardihood and endurance was of national im-
portance, and the prize-ring, rough and brutal as
it was, served at least as a correction to effemi-
nacy, and as an object lesson in manliness.
I have added a note at the end of this volume,
which gives a short account of some of the fight-
ing-men who are mentioned in the course of the
narrative, and may be of interest to those to
whom the pages of “Pugilistica” are inaccessible.
A. CONAN DOYLE.
UNDERSHAw, HINDHEAD,
1901.
Vi


CONTENTS
CELAPTER
XIX. CLIFFE ROYAL
XX. LORD AvoN
XXI. THE WALET's STORY
XXII. THE END
NOTES
PAGE,
. 347
. 360
. 376
. 392
. 405


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE BLOCKADING SQUADRON . © . Frontispiece
FACING
PAGE
HARRISON CLIMBED IN A LEISURELY MANNER
OVER THE ROPES e • • • . 321


--


RODNEY STONE
CHAPTER I
FRIAR'S OAK
ON this, the first of January of the year 1851,
the nineteenth century has reached its midway
term, and many of us who shared its youth have
already warnings which tell us that it has out-
worn us. We put our grizzled heads together,
we older ones, and we talk of the great days
that we have known; but we find that when it is
with our children that we talk it is a hard mat-
ter to make them understand. We and our
fathers before us lived much the same life, but
they with their railway trains and their steam-
boats belong to a different age. It is true that
we can put history-books into their hands, and
they can read from them of our weary struggle
of two and twenty years with that great and
evil man. They can learn how Freedom fled
from the whole broad continent, and how Nel-
son's blood was shed, and Pitt's noble heart was
broken in striving that she should not pass us
for ever to take refuge with our brothers across
1


RODNEY STONE
the Atlantic. All this they can read, with the
date of this treaty or that battle, but I do not
know where they are to read of ourselves, of the
folk we were, and the lives we led, and how the
world seemed to our eyes when they were young
as theirs are now.
If I take up my pen to tell you about this,
you must not look for any story at my hands,
for I was only in my earliest manhood when
these things befell; and although I saw some-
thing of the stories of other lives, I could scarce
claim one of my own. It is the love of a wom-
an that makes the story of a man, and many a
year was to pass before I first looked into the
eyes of the mother of my children. To us it
seems but an affair of yesterday, and yet those
children can now reach the plums in the garden
whilst we are seeking for a ladder, and where we
once walked with their little hands in ours, we
are glad now to lean upon their arms. But I
shall speak of a time when the love of a mother
was the only love I knew, and if you seek for
something more, then it is not for you that I
write. But if you would come out with me into
that forgotten world; if you would know Boy
Jim and Champion Harrison; if you would
meet my father, one of Nelson's own men; if
you would catch a glimpse of that great seaman
himself, and of George, afterwards the unworthy
2


FRIAR'S OAK
King of England; if, above all, you would see
my famous uncle, Sir Charles Tregellis, the
King of the Bucks, and the great fighting men
whose names are still household words amongst
you, then give me your hand and let us start.
But I must warn you also that, if you think
you will find much that is of interest in your
guide, you are destined to disappointment.
When I look over my bookshelves, I can see
that it is only the wise and witty and valiant
who have ventured to write down their experi-
ences. For my own part, if I were only assured
that I was as clever and brave as the average
man about me, I should be well satisfied. Men
of their hands have thought well of my brains,
and men of brains of my hands, and that is the
best that I can say of myself. Save in the one
matter of having an inborn readiness for music,
so that the mastery of any instrument comes
very easily and naturally to me, I cannot recall
any single advantage which I can boast over my
fellows. In all things I have been a half-way
man, for I am of middle height, my eyes are
neither blue nor grey, and my hair, before
Nature dusted it with her powder, was betwixt
flaxen and brown. I may, perhaps, claim this:
that through life I have never felt a touch of
jealousy as I have admired a better man than
myself, and that I have always seen all things as
3


RODNEY STONE
they are, myself included, which should count in
my favour now that I sit down in my mature
age to write my memories. With your permis-
sion, then, we will push my own personality as
far as possible out of the picture. If you can
conceive me as a thin and colourless cord upon
which my would-be pearls are strung, you will
be accepting me upon the terms which I should
wish.
Our family, the Stones, have for many gener-
ations belonged to the navy, and it has been a
custom among us for the eldest son to take
the name of his father's favourite commander.
Thus we can trace our lineage back to old Ver-
non Stone, who commanded a high-sterned,
peak-nosed, fifty-gun ship against the Dutch.
Through Hawke Stone and Benbow Stone we
came down to my father, Anson Stone, who in
his turn christened me Rodney, at the parish
church of St. Thomas at Portsmouth in the year
of grace 1786.
Out of my window as I write I can see my
own great lad in the garden, and if I were to
call out “Nelson l’ you would see that I have
been true to the traditions of our family.
My dear mother, the best that ever a man
had, was the second daughter of the Reverend
John Tregellis, Vicar of Milton, which is a small
parish upon the borders of the marshes of Lang-
4








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FRIAR'S OAK
stone. She came of a poor family, but one of
some position, for her elder brother was the
famous Sir Charles Tregellis, who, having in-
herited the money of a wealthy East Indian
merchant, became in time the talk of the town
and the very particular friend of the Prince of
Wales. Of him I shall have more to say here-
after; but you will note now that he was my
own uncle, and brother to my mother.
I can remember her all through her beautiful
life, for she was but a girl when she married, and
little more when I can first recall her busy fin-
gers and her gentle voice. I see her as a lovely
woman with kind, dove's eyes, somewhat short
of stature it is true, but carrying herself very
bravely. In my memories of those days she is
clad always in some purple shimmering stuff,
with a white kerchief round her long white neck,
and I see her fingers turning and darting as she
works at her knitting. I see her again in her
middle years, sweet and loving, planning, con-
triving, achieving, with the few shillings a day
of a lieutenant's pay on which to support the
cottage at Friar's Oak, and to keep a fair face to
the world. And now, if I do but step into the
parlour, I can see her once more, with over
eighty years of saintly life behind her, silver-
haired, placid-faced, with her dainty ribboned
cap, her gold-rimmed glasses, and her woolly
5


RODNEY STONE
shawl with the blue border. I loved her young
and I love her old, and when she goes she will
take something with her which nothing in the
world can ever make good to me again. You
may have many friends, you who read this, and
you may chance to marry more than once, but
your mother is your first and your last. Cherish
her, then, whilst you may, for the day will come
when every hasty deed or heedless word will
come back with its sting to hive in your own
heart.
Such, then, was my mother; and as to my
father, I can describe him best when I come to
the time when he returned to us from the Med-
iterranean. During all my childhood he was
only a name to me, and a face in a miniature
hung round my mother's neck. At first they
told me he was fighting the French, and then
after some years one heard less about the French
and more about General Buonaparte. I remem-
ber the awe with which one day in Thomas
Street, Portsmouth, I saw a print of the great
Corsican in a bookseller's window. This, then,
was the arch enemy with whom my father spent
his life in terrible and ceaseless contest. To my
childish imagination it was a personal affair, and
I for ever saw my father and this clean-shaven,
thin-lipped man swaying and reeling in a deadly,
year-long grapple. It was not until I went to
6


FRIAR'S OAK
the Grammar School that I understood how
many other little boys there were whose fathers
were in the same case.
Only once in those long years did my father
return home, which will show you what it meant
to be the wife of a sailor in those days. It was
just after we had moved from Portsmouth to
Friar's Oak, whither he came for a week before
he set sail with Admiral Jervis to help him to
turn his name into Lord St. Vincent. I remem-
ber that he frightened as well as fascinated me
with his talk of battles, and I can recall as if it
were yesterday the horror with which I gazed
upon a spot of blood upon his shirt ruffle, which
had come, as I have no doubt, from a mischance
in shaving. At the time I never questioned that
it had spurted from some stricken Frenchman or
Spaniard, and I shrank from him in terror when
he laid his horny hand upon my head. My
mother wept bitterly when he was gone, but for
my own part I was not sorry to see his blue back
and white shorts going down the garden walk, for
I felt, with the heedless selfishness of a child, that
we were closer together, she and I, when we were
alone.
I was in my eleventh year when we moved
from Portsmouth to Friar's Oak, a little Sussex
village to the north of Brighton, which was rec-
ommended to us by my uncle, Sir Charles Tre-
7


FRIAR'S OAK
nephew of Champion Harrison of the village
smithy. I can see him as he was in those days
with great, floundering, half-formed limbs like a
Newfoundland puppy, and a face that set every
woman's head round as he passed her. It was in
those days that we began our lifelong friendship,
a friendship which still in our waning years binds
us closely as two brothers. I taught him his
exercises, for he never loved the sight of a book,
and he in turn made me box and wrestle, tickle
trout on the Adur, and snare rabbits on Ditchling
Down, for his hands were as active as his brain
was slow. He was two years my elder, how-
ever, so that, long before I had finished my
schooling, he had gone to help his uncle at the
smithy.
Friar's Oak is in a dip of the Downs, and
the forty-third milestone between London and
Brighton lies on the skirt of the village. It is
but a small place, with an ivied church, a fine
vicarage, and a row of red-brick cottages each in
its own little garden. At one end was the forge
of Champion Harrison, with his house behind it,
and at the other was Mr. Allen's school. The
yellow cottage, standing back a little from the
road, with its upper story bulging forward and a
crisscross of black woodwork let into the plaster,
is the one in which we lived. I do not know
if it is still standing, but I should think it
9


RODNEY STONE
likely, for it was not a place much given to
change.
Just opposite to us, at the other side of the
broad, white road, was the Friar's Oak Inn, which
was kept in my day by John Cummings, a man
of excellent repute at home, but liable to strange
outbreaks when he travelled, as will afterwards
become apparent. Though there was a stream
of traffic upon the road, the coaches from Brigh-
ton were too fresh to stop, and those from London
too eager to reach their journey's end, so that if
it had not been for an occasional broken trace or
loosened wheel, the landlord would have had
only the thirsty throats of the village to trust to.
Those were the days when the Prince of Wales
had just built his singular palace by the sea, and
so from May to September, which was the Brigh-
ton season, there was never a day that from one
to two hundred curricles, chaises, and phaetons
did not rattle past our doors. Many a summer
evening have Boy Jim and I lain upon the grass,
watching all these grand folk, and cheering the
London coaches as they came roaring through
the dust clouds, leaders and wheelers stretched
to their work, the bugles screaming and the
coachmen with their low-crowned, curly-brimmed
hats, and their faces as scarlet as their coats.
The passengers used to laugh when Boy Jim
shouted at them, but if they could have read his
10


FRIAR'S OAK
big, half-set limbs and his loose shoulders aright,
they would have looked a little harder at him,
perhaps, and given him back his cheer.
Boy Jim had never known a father or a mother,
and his whole life had been spent with his uncle,
Champion Harrison. Harrison was the Friar's
Oak blacksmith, and he had his nickname be-
cause he fought Tom Johnson when he held the
English belt, and would most certainly have
beaten him had the Bedfordshire magistrates not
appeared to break up the fight. For years there
was no such glutton to take punishment and no
more finishing hitter than Harrison, though he
was always, as I understand, a slow one upon
his feet. At last, in a fight with Black Baruk
the Jew, he finished the battle with such a lash-
ing hit that he not only knocked his opponent
over the inner ropes, but he left him betwixt life
and death for long three weeks. During all this
time Harrison lived half demented, expecting
every hour to feel the hand of a Bow Street run-
ner upon his collar, and to be tried for his life.
This experience, with the prayers of his wife,
made him forswear the ring for ever, and carry
his great muscles into the one trade in which
they seemed to give him an advantage. There
was a good business to be done at Friar's Oak
from the passing traffic and the Sussex farmers,
so that he soon became the richest of the vil-
2 11


RODNEY STONE
lagers; and he came to church on a Sunday with
his wife and his nephew, looking as respectable
a family man as one would wish to see.
He was not a tall man, not more than five feet
seven inches, and it was often said that if he had
had an extra inch of reach he would have been a
match for Jackson or Belcher at their best. His
chest was like a barrel, and his forearms were
the most powerful that I have ever seen, with
deep grooves between the smooth-swelling mus-
cles like a piece of water-worn rock. In spite of
his strength, however, he was of a slow, orderly,
and kindly disposition, so that there was no man
more beloved over the whole country-side. His
heavy, placid, clean-shaven face could set very
sternly, as I have seen upon occasion; but for
me and every child in the village there was ever
a smile upon his lips and a greeting in his eyes.
There was not a beggar upon the country-side
who did not know that his heart was as soft as
his muscles were hard.
There was nothing that he liked to talk of
more than his old battles, but he would stop if
he saw his little wife coming, for the one great
shadow in her life was the ever-present fear that
some day he would throw down sledge and rasp
and be off to the ring once more. And you
must be reminded here once for all that that
former calling of his was by no means at that
12


FRIAR'S OAK
time in the debased condition to which it after-
wards fell. Public opinion has gradually become
opposed to it, for the reason that it came largely
into the hands of rogues, and because it fostered
ringside ruffianism. Even the honest and brave
pugilist was found to draw villainy round him,
just as the pure and noble racehorse does. For
this reason the Ring is dying in England, and
we may hope that when Caunt and Bendigo
have passed away, they may have none to suc-
ceed them. But it was different in the days of
which I speak. Public opinion was then largely
in its favour, and there were good reasons why
it should be so. It was a time of war, when
England with an army and navy composed only
of those who volunteered to fight because they
had fighting blood in them, had to encounter,
as they would now have to encounter, a power
which could by despotic law turn every citizen
into a soldier. If the people had not been full
of this lust for combat, it is certain that England
must have been overborne. And it was thought,
and is, on the face of it, reasonable, that a strug-
gle between two indomitable men, with thirty
thousand to view it and three million to discuss
it, did help to set a standard of hardihood and
endurance. Brutal it was, no doubt, and its bru-
tality is the end of it; but it is not so brutal as
war, which will survive it. Whether it is logical
13


RODNEY STONE
now to teach the people to be peaceful in an age
when their very existence may come to depend
upon their being warlike, is a question for wiser
heads than mine. But that was what we thought
of it in the days of your grandfathers, and that
is why you might find statesmen and philan-
thropists like Windham, Fox, and Althorp at
the side of the Ring.
The mere fact that solid men should patronize
it was enough in itself to prevent the villainy
which afterwards crept in. For over twenty
years, in the days of Jackson, Brain, Cribb, the
Belchers, Pearce, Gully, and the rest, the leaders
of the Ring were men whose honesty was above
suspicion; and those were just the twenty years
when the Ring may, as I have said, have served
a national purpose. You have heard how Pearce
saved the Bristol girl from the burning house,
how Jackson won the respect and friendship of
the best men of his age, and how Gully rose to a
seat in the first Reformed Parliament. These
were the men who set the standard, and their
trade carried with it this obvious recommenda-
tion, that it is one in which no drunken or foul-
living man could long succeed. There were
exceptions among them, no doubt—bullies like
Hickman and brutes like Berks; in the main, I
say again that they were honest men, brave and
enduring to an incredible degree, and a credit to
14


FRIAR'S OAK
the country which produced them. It was, as
you will see, my fate to see something of them,
and I speak of what I know.
In our own village, I can assure you that we
were very proud of the presence of such a man as
Champion Harrison, and if folks stayed at the
inn, they would walk down as far as the smithy
just to have the sight of him. And he was
worth seeing, too, especially on a winter's night
when the red glare of the forge would beat upon
his great muscles and upon the proud, hawk-face
of Boy Jim as they heaved and swayed over some
glowing plough coulter, framing themselves in
sparks with every blow. He would strike once
with his thirty-pound swing sledge, and Jim
twice with his hand hammer; and the “Clunk
—clink, clink! clunk—clink, clink!” would bring
me flying down the village street, on the chance
that, since they were both at the anvil, there
might be a place for me at the bellows.
Only once during those village years can I re-
member Champion Harrison showing me for an
instant the sort of man that he had been. It
chanced one summer morning, when Boy Jim
and I were standing by the smithy door, that
there came a private coach from Brighton, with
its four fresh horses, and its brass-work shining,
flying along with such a merry rattle and jing-
ling, that the Champion came running out with
15


RODNEY STONE
a half-fullered shoe in his tongs to have a look
at it. A gentleman in a white coachman's cape
—a Corinthian, as we would call him in those
days—was driving, and half a dozen of his fel-
lows, laughing and shouting, were on the top
behind him. It may have been that the bulk of
the smith caught his eye, and that he acted in
pure wantonness, or it may possibly have been
an accident, but, as he swung past, the twenty-
foot thong of the driver's whip hissed round, and
we heard the sharp snap of it across Harrison's
leather apron.
“Halloa, master !” shouted the smith, looking
after him. “You’re not to be trusted on the
box until you can handle your whip better'n
that.”
“What's that?” cried the driver, pulling up
his team.
“I bid you have a care, master, or there will
be some one-eyed folk along the road you drive.”
“Oh, you say that, do you?” said the driver,
putting his whip into its socket and pulling off his
driving-gloves. “I’ll have a little talk with you,
my fine fellow.”
The sporting gentlemen of those days were
very fine boxers for the most part, for it was the
mode to take a course of Mendoza, just as a few
years afterwards there was no man about town
who had not had the mufflers on with Jackson.
16


FRIAR'S OAK
Knowing their own prowess, they never refused
the chance of a wayside adventure, and it was
seldom indeed that the bargee or the navigator
had much to boast of after a young blood had
taken off his coat to him.
This one swung himself off the box-seat with
the alacrity of a man who has no doubts about
the upshot of the quarrel, and after hanging his
caped coat upon the swingle-bar, he daintily
turned up the ruffled cuffs of his white cambric
shirt.
“I’ll pay you for your advice, my man,” said he.
I am sure that the men upon the coach knew
who the burly smith was, and looked upon it as a
prime joke to see their companion walkinto such
a trap. They roared with delight, and bellowed
out scraps of advice to him.
“Knock some of the soot off him, Lord Fred-
erick l” they shouted. “Give the Johnny Raw
his breakfast. Chuck him in among his own
cinders | Sharp's the word, or you'll see the
back of him.”
Encouraged by these cries, the young aristocrat
advanced upon his man. The smith never moved,
but his mouth set grim and hard, while his tufted
brows came down over his keen, grey eyes. The
tongs had fallen, and his hands were hanging free.
“Have a care, master,” said he. “You'll get
pepper if you don't.”
17


RODNEY STONE
Something in the assured voice, and something
also in the quiet pose, warned the young lord of
his danger. I saw him look hard at his antag-
onist, and as he did so, his hands and his jaw
dropped together.
“By Gad l” he cried, “it’s Jack Harrison l”
“My name, master !”
“And I thought you were some Essex chaw-
bacon! Why, man, I haven't seen you since
the day you nearly killed Black Baruk, and cost
me a cool hundred by doing it.”
How they roared on the coach.
“Smoked ! Smoked, by Gad!” they yelled.
“It's Jack Harrison the bruiser | Lord Fred-
erick was going to take on the ex-champion. Give
him one on the apron, Fred, and seewhat happens.”
But the driver had already climbed back into
his perch, laughing as loudly as any of his com-
panions.
“We'll let you off this time, Harrison,” said
he “Are those your sons down there?”
“This is my nephew, master.”
“Here's a guinea for him ! He shall never
say I robbed him of his uncle.” And so, having
turned the laugh in his favour by his merry way
of taking it, he cracked his whip, and away they
flew to make London under the five hours;
while Jack Harrison, with his half-fullered shoe
in his hand, went whistling back to the forge.
18


CHAPTER II
THE WALKER OF CLIFFE ROYAL
So much for Champion Harrison | Now, I
wish to say something more about Boy Jim, not
only because he was the comrade of my youth,
but because you will find as you go on that this
book is his story rather than mine, and that
there came a time when his name and his fame
were in the mouths of all England. You will
bear with me, therefore, while I tell you of his
character as it was in those days, and especially
of one very singular adventure which neither of
us are likely to forget.
It was strange to see Jim with his uncle and
his aunt, for he seemed to be of another race and
breed to them. Often I have watched them
come up the aisle upon a Sunday, first the
square, thick-set man, and then the little, worn,
anxious-eyed woman, and last this glorious lad
with his clear-cut face, his black curls, and his
step so springy and light that it seemed as if he
were bound to earth by some lesser tie than the
heavy-footed villagers round him. He had not
yet attained his full six foot of stature, but no
judge of a man (and every woman, at least, is
19


THE WALKER OF CLIFFE ROYAL
And it was not long before he made good his
promise.
I have said already that Boy Jim had no love
for his books, but by that I meant school-books,
for when it came to the reading of romances or
of anything which had a touch of gallantry or
adventure, there was no tearing him away from
it until it was finished. When such a book
came into his hands, Friar's Oak and the smithy
became a dream to him, and his life was spent
out upon the ocean or wandering over the broad
continents with his heroes. And he would draw
me into his enthusiasms also, so that I was glad
to play Friday to his Crusoe when he proclaimed
that the Clump at Clayton was a desert island,
and that we were cast upon it for a week. But
when I found that we were actually to sleep out
there without covering every night, and that he
proposed that our food should be the sheep of
the Downs (wild goats he called them) cooked
upon a fire, which was to be made by the rub-
bing together of two sticks, my heart failed me,
and on the very first night I crept away to my
mother. But Jim stayed out there for the whole
weary week—a wet week it was, too !—and came
back at the end of it looking a deal wilder and
dirtier than his hero does in the picture-books.
It is well that he had only promised to stay a
week, for, if it had been a month, he would have
21


RODNEY STONE
died of cold and hunger before his pride would
have let him come home.
His pride!—that was the deepest thing in all
Jim's nature. It is a mixed quality to my mind,
half a virtue and half a vice: a virtue in holding
a man out of the dirt; a vice in making it hard
for him to rise when once he has fallen. Jim
was proud down to the very marrow of his
bones. You remember the guinea that the
young lord had thrown him from the box of the
coach Two days later somebody picked it
from the roadside mud. Jim only had seen
where it had fallen, and he would not deign even
to point it out to a beggar. Nor would he stoop
to give a reason in such a case, but would an-
swer all remonstrances with a curl of his lip and
a flash of his dark eyes. Even at school he was
the same, with such a sense of his own dignity,
that other folk had to think of it too. He
might say, as he did say, that a right angle was
a proper sort of angle, or put Panama in Sicily,
but old Joshua Allen would as soon have
thought of raising his cane against him as he
would of letting me off if I had said as much.
And so it was that, although Jim was the son
of nobody, and I of a King's officer, it always
seemed to me to have been a condescension on
his part that he should have chosen me as his
friend.
22


THE WALKER OF CLIFFE ROYAL
It was this pride of Boy Jim's which led to an
adventure which makes me shiver now when I
think of it.
It happened in the August of '99, or it may
have been in the early days of September; but I
remember that we heard the cuckoo in Patcham
Wood, and that Jim said that perhaps it was the
last of him. I was still at school, but Jim had
left, he being nigh sixteen and I thirteen. It
was my Saturday half-holiday, and we spent it,
as we often did, out upon the Downs. Our
favourite place was beyond Wolstonbury, where
we could stretch ourselves upon the soft, springy,
chalk grass among the plump little Southdown
sheep, chatting with the shepherds, as they
leaned upon their queer old Pyecombe crooks,
made in the days when Sussex turned out more
iron than all the counties of England.
It was there that we lay upon that glorious
afternoon. If we chose to roll upon our right
sides, the whole weald lay in front of us, with
the North Downs curving away in olive-green
folds, with here and there the snow-white rift of
a chalk-pit; if we turned upon our left, we over-
looked the huge blue stretch of the Channel. A
convoy, as I can well remember, was coming up
it that day, the timid flock of merchantmen in
front; the frigates, like well-trained dogs, upon
the skirts; and two burly drover line-of-battle
23 -


RODNEY STONE
ships rolling along behind them. My fancy was
soaring out to my father upon the waters, when
a word from Jim brought it back on to the grass
like a broken-winged gull.
“Roddy,” said he, “have you heard that Cliffe
Royal is haunted ?”
Had I heard it? Of course I had heard it.
Who was there in all the Down country who
had not heard of the Walker of Cliffe Royal?
“Do you know the story of it, Roddy?”
“Why,” said I, with some pride, “I ought to
know it, seeing that my mother's brother, Sir
Charles Tregellis, was the nearest friend of Lord
Avon, and was at this card-party when the
thing happened. I heard the vicar and my
mother talking about it last week, and it was all
so clear to me that I might have been there
when the murder was done.”
“It is a strange story,” said Jim, thoughtfully;
“but when I asked my aunt about it, she would
give me no answer; and as to my uncle, he cut
me short at the very mention of it.”
“There is a good reason for that,” said I, “for
Lord Avon was, as I have heard, your uncle's
best friend; and it is but natural that he would
not wish to speak of his disgrace.”
“Tell me the story, Roddy.”
“It is an old one now—fourteen years old—
and yet they have not got to the end of it.
24


THE WALKER OF CLIFFE ROYAL
There were four of them who had come down
from London to spend a few days in Lord
Avon's old house. One was his own young
brother, Captain Barrington; another was his
cousin, Sir Lothian Hume; Sir Charles Tre-
gellis, my uncle, was the third; and Lord Avon
the fourth. They are fond of playing cards for
money, these great people, and they played and
played for two days and a night. Lord Avon
lost, and Sir Lothian lost, and my uncle lost,
and Captain Barrington won until he could win
no more. He won their money, but above all
he won papers from his elder brother which
meant a great deal to him. It was late on a
Monday night that they stopped playing. On
the Tuesday morning Captain Barrington was
found dead beside his bed with his throat cut.
“And Lord Avon did it?”
“His papers were found burned in the grate,
his wristband was clutched in the dead man's
hand, and his knife lay beside the body.”
“Did they hang him, then?”
“They were too slow in laying hands upon
him. He waited until he saw that they had
brought it home to him, and then he fled. He
has never been seen since, but it is said that he
reached America.”
“And the ghost walks?”
“There are many who have seen it.”
25


RODNEY STONE
“Why is the house still empty?”
“Because it is in the keeping of the law.
Lord Avon had no children, and Sir Lothian
Hume—the same who was at the card-party—is
his nephew and heir. But he can touch nothing
until he can prove Lord Avon to be dead.”
Jim lay silent for a bit, plucking at the short
grass with his fingers.
“Roddy,” said he at last, “will you come with
me to-night and look for the ghost?”
It turned me cold, the very thought of it.
“My mother would not let me.”
“Slip out when she's abed. I'll wait for you
at the smithy.”
“Cliffe Royal is locked.”
“I’ll open a window easy enough.”
“I’m afraid, Jim.”
“But you are not afraid if you are with me,
Roddy. I'll promise you that no ghost shall
hurt you.”
So I gave him my word that I would come,
and then all the rest of the day I went about
the most sad-faced lad in Sussex. It was all
very well for Boy Jim It was that pride of his
which was taking him there. He would go be-
cause there was no one else on the country-side
that would dare. But I had no pride of that
sort. I was quite of the same way of thinking
as the others, and would as soon have thought
26


THE WALKER OF CLIFFE ROYAL
of passing my night at Jacob's gibbet on Ditch-
ling Common as in the haunted house of Cliffe
Royal. Still, I could not bring myself to desert
Jim; and so, as I say, I slunk about the house
with so pale and peaky a face that my dear
mother would have it that I had been at the
green apples, and sent me to bed early with a
dish of camomile tea for my supper.
England went to rest betimes in those days,
for there were few who could afford the price of
candles. When I looked out of my window just
after the clock had gone ten, there was not a
light in the village save only at the inn. It was
but a few feet from the ground, so I slipped out,
and there was Jim waiting for me at the smithy
corner. We crossed John's Common together,
and so past Ridden's Farm, meeting only one or
two riding officers upon the way. There was a
brisk wind blowing, and the moon kept peeping
through the rifts of the scud, so that our road
was sometimes silver-clear, and sometimes so
black that we found ourselves among the bram-
bles and gorse-bushes which lined it. We came
at last to the wooden gate with the high stone
pillars by the roadside, and, looking through be-
tween the rails, we saw the long avenue of oaks,
and at the end of this ill-boding tunnel, the pale
face of the house glimmered in the moonshine.
That would have been enough for me, that
3 27


RODNEY STONE
one glimpse of it, and the sound of the night
wind sighing and groaning among the branches.
But Jim swung the gate open, and up we went,
the gravel squeaking beneath our tread. It tow-
ered high, the old house, with many little win-
dows in which the moon glinted, and with a
strip of water running round three sides of it.
The arched door stood right in the face of us,
and on one side a lattice hung open upon its
hinges.
“We're in luck, Roddy,” whispered Jim.
“Here's one of the windows open.”
“Don’t you think we've gone far enough,
Jim ?” said I, with my teeth chattering.
“I’ll lift you in first.”
“No, no, I'll not go first.”
“Then I will.” He gripped the sill, and had
his knee on it in an instant. “Now, Roddy,
give me your hands.” With a pull he had me
up beside him, and a moment later we were both
in the haunted house.
How hollow it sounded when we jumped down
on to the wooden floor ! There was such a sud-
den boom and reverberation that we both stood
silent for a moment. Then Jim burst out laugh-
Ing.
“What an old drum of a place it is!” he cried;
“we’ll strike a light, Roddy, and see where we
25
a re.
28


THE WALKER OF CLIFFE ROYAL
He had brought a candle and a tinder-box in
his pocket. When the flame burned up, we saw
an arched stone roof above our heads, and broad
deal shelves all round us covered with dusty
dishes. It was the pantry.
“I’ll show you round,” said Jim, merrily; and,
pushing the door open, he led the way into the
hall. I remember the high, oak-panelled walls,
with the heads of deer jutting out, and a single
white bust, which sent my heart into my mouth,
in the corner. Many rooms opened out of this,
and we wandered from one to the other—the
kitchens, the still-room, the morning-room, the
dining-room, all filled with the same choking
smell of dust and of mildew.
“This is where they played the cards, Jim,”
said I, in a hushed voice. “It was on that very
table.”
“Why, here are the cards themselves!” cried
he ; and he pulled a brown towel from some-
thing in the centre of the sideboard. Sure
enough it was a pile of playing-cards—forty
packs, I should think, at the least—which had
lain there ever since that tragic game which was
played before I was born.
“I wonder whence that stair leads?” said Jim.
“Don’t go up there, Jim 1" I cried, clutching
at his arm. “That must lead to the room of the
murder.”
29


RODNEY STONE
“How do you know that?”
“The vicar said that they saw on the ceil-
ing— Oh, Jim, you can see it even now !”
He held up his candle, and there was a great,
dark smudge upon the white plaster above us.
“I believe you're right,” said he, “but any-
how I'm going to have a look at it.”
“Don’t, Jim, don't !” I cried.
“Tut, Roddy! you can stay here if you are
afraid. I won't be more than a minute. There's
no use going on a ghost hunt unless Great
Lord, there's something coming down the stairs!”
I heard it too—a shuffling footstep in the room
above, and then a creak from the steps, and then
another creak, and another. I saw Jim's face as
if it had been carved out of ivory, with his parted
lips and his staring eyes fixed upon the black
square of the stair opening. He still held the
light, but his fingers twitched, and with every
twitch the shadows sprang from the walls to the
ceiling. As to myself, my knees gave way un-
der me, and I found myself on the floor crouch-
ing down behind Jim, with a scream frozen in
my throat. And still the step came slowly from
stair to stair.
Then, hardly daring to look and yet unable to
turn away my eyes, I saw a figure dimly outlined
in the corner upon which the stair opened.
There was a silence in which I could hear my
30


THE WALKER OF CLIFFE ROYAL
poor heart thumping, and then when I looked
again the figure was gone, and the low creak,
creak was heard once more upon the stairs.
Jim sprang after it, and I was left half-fainting
in the moonlight.
But it was not for long. He was down again
in a minute, and, passing his hand under my
arm, he half led and half carried me out of the
house. It was not until we were in the fresh
night air again that he opened his mouth.
“Can you stand, Roddy?”
“Yes, but I'm shaking.”
“So am I,” said he, passing his hand over his
forehead. “I ask your pardon, Roddy. I was a
fool to bring you on such an errand. But I never
believed in such things. I know better now.”
“Could it have been a man, Jim ?” I asked,
plucking up my courage now that I could hear
the dogs barking on the farms.
“It was a spirit, Rodney.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I followed it and saw it vanish into
a wall, as easily as an eel into sand. Why,
Roddy, what's amiss now?”
My fears were all back upon me, and every
nerve creeping with horror.
“Take me away, Jim I Take me away !” I
cried.
I was glaring down the avenue, and his eyes
31


RODNEY STONE
followed mine. Amid the gloom of the oak
trees something was coming towards us.
“Quiet, Roddy!” whispered Jim. “By heav-
ens, come what may, my arms are going round
it this time.”
We crouched as motionless as the trunks
behind us. Heavy steps ploughed their way
through the soft gravel, and a broad figure
loomed upon us in the darkness.
Jim sprang upon it like a tiger.
“You're not a spirit, anyway!” he cried.
The man gave a shout of surprise, and then a
growl of rage.
“What the deuce l” he roared, and then, “I’ll
break your neck if you don't let go.”
The threat might not have loosened Jim's
grip, but the voice did.
“Why, uncle!” he cried.
“Well, I'm blessed if it isn't Boy Jim And
what's this? Why, it's young Master Rodney
Stone, as I'm a living sinner! What in the
world are you two doing up at Cliffe Royal at
this time of night?”
We had all moved out into the moonlight,
and there was Champion Harrison with a big
bundle on his arm, and such a look of amaze-
ment upon his face as would have brought a
smile back on to mine had my heart not still
been cramped with fear.
32


RODNEY STONE
asked the question which was already in my
mind.
“What took you up to Cliffe Royal, uncle?”
“Well, as a man gets on in years,” said the
Champion, “there's many a duty turns up that
the likes of you have no idea of When you're
near forty yourself, you'll maybe know the truth
of what I say.”
So that was all we could draw from him; but,
young as I was, I had heard of coast smuggling
and of packages carried to lonely places at night,
so that from that time on, if I had heard that
the preventives had made a capture, I was never
easy until I saw the jolly face of Champion
Harrison looking out of his smithy door.
34


CHAPTER III
THE PLAY-ACTRESS OF ANSTEY CROSS
I HAVE told you something about Friar's Oak,
and about the life that we led there. Now that
my memory goes back to the old place it would
gladly linger, for every thread which I draw from
the skein of the past brings out half a dozen
others that were entangled with it. I was in
two minds when I began whether I had enough
in me to make a book of, and now I know that
I could write one about Friar's Oak alone, and
the folk whom I knew in my childhood. They
were hard and uncouth, some of them, I doubt
not; and yet, seen through the golden haze of
time, they all seem sweet and lovable. There
was our good vicar, Mr. Jefferson, who loved
the whole world save only Mr. Slack, the Baptist
minister of Clayton; and there was kindly Mr.
Slack, who was all men's brother save only of
Mr. Jefferson, the vicar of Friar's Oak. Then
there was Monsieur Rudin, the French Royalist
refugee who lived over on the Pangdean road,
and who, when the news of a victory came in,
was convulsed with joy because we had beaten
Buonaparte, and shaken with rage because we
35


RODNEY STONE
had beaten the French, so that after the Nile he
wept for a whole day out of delight and then for
another one out of fury, alternately clapping his
hands and stamping his feet. Well I remember
his thin, upright figure and the way in which he
jauntily twirled his little cane; for cold and hun-
ger could not cast him down, though we knew
that he had his share of both. Yet he was so
proud and had such a grand manner of talking,
that no one dared to offer him a cloak or a meal.
I can see his face now, with a flush over each
craggy cheek-bone when the butcher made him
the present of some ribs of beef. He could not
but take it, and yet whilst he was stalking off he
threw a proud glance over his shoulder at the
butcher, and he said, “Monsieur, I have a dog !”
Yet it was Monsieur Rudin and not his dog who
looked plumper for a week to come.
Then I remember Mr. Paterson, the farmer,
who was what you would now call a Radical,
though at that time some called him a Priestley-
ite, and some a Fox-ite, and nearly everybody a
traitor. It certainly seemed to me at the time
to be very wicked that a man should look glum
when he heard of a British victory; and when
they burned his straw image at the gate of his
farm, Boy Jim and I were among those who lent
a hand. But we were bound to confess that he
was game, though he might be a traitor, for
36


PLAY-ACTRESS OF ANSTEY CROSS
down he came, striding into the midst of us with
his brown coat and his buckled shoes, and the
fire beating upon his grim, schoolmaster face.
My word, how he rated us, and how glad we
were at last to sneak quietly away.
“You livers of a lie l’” said he. “You and
those like you have been preaching peace for
nigh two thousand years, and cutting throats the
whole time. If the money that is lost in taking
French lives were spent in saving English ones,
you would have more right to burn candles in
your windows. Who are you that dare to come
here to insult a law-abiding man?”
“We are the people of England 1" cried
young Master Ovington, the son of the Tory
Squire.
“You ! you horse-racing, cock-fighting ne'er-
do-weel! Do you presume to talk for the peo-
ple of England? They are a deep, strong, silent
stream, and you are the scum, the bubbles, the
poor, silly froth that floats upon the surface.”
We thought him very wicked then, but, look-
ing back, I am not sure that we were not very
wicked ourselves.
And then there were the smugglers! The
Downs swarmed with them, for since there
might be no lawful trade betwixt France and
England, it had all to run in that channel. I
have been up on St. John's Common upon a
37


PLAY-ACTRESS OF ANSTEY CROSS
on to the walls, and wishing, like the lazy lad
that I was, that Mr. Lilly had died before ever
he wrote his Latin grammar, when my mother,
who was sitting knitting in the window, gave a
little cry of surprise.
“Good gracious !” she cried. “What a
vulgar-looking woman l”
It was so rare to hear my mother say a hard
word against anybody (unless it were General
Buonaparte) that I was across the room and at
the window in a jump. A pony-chaise was com-
ing slowly down the village street, and in it was
the queerest-looking person that I had ever seen.
She was very stout, with a face that was of so
dark a red that it shaded away into purple over
the nose and cheeks. She wore a great hat with
a white curling ostrich feather, and from under
its brim her two bold, black eyes stared out with
a look of anger and defiance as if to tell the folk
that she thought less of them than they could do
of her. She had some sort of scarlet pelisse with
white swansdown about her neck, and she held
the reins slack in her hands, while the pony wan-
dered from side to side of the road as the fancy
took him. Each time the chaise swayed, her
head with the great hat swayed also, so that
sometimes we saw the crown of it and some-
times the brim.
“What a dreadful sight !” cried my mother.
39


RODNEY STONE
“What is amiss with her, mother?”
“Heaven forgive me if I misjudge her, Rod-
ney, but I think that the unfortunate woman
has been drinking.”
“Why,” I cried, “she has pulled the chaise
up at the smithy. I'll find out all the news for
you ;” and, catching up my cap, away I scam-
pered.
Champion Harrison had been shoeing a horse
at the forge door, and when I got into the street
I could see him with the creature's hoof still
under his arm, and the rasp in his hand, kneel-
ing down amid the white parings. The woman
was beckoning him from the chaise, and he star-
ing up at her with the queerest expression upon
his face. Presently he threw down his rasp and
went across to her, standing by the wheel and
shaking his head as he talked to her. For my
part, I slipped into the smithy, where Boy Jim
was finishing the shoe, and I watched the neat-
ness of his work and the deft way in which he
turned up the caulkens. When he had done
with it he carried it out, and there was the
strange woman still talking with his uncle.
“Is that he?” I heard her ask.
Champion Harrison nodded.
She looked at Jim, and I never saw such eyes
in a human head, so large, and black, and won-
derful. Boy as I was, I knew that, in spite of
40


PLAY-ACTRESS OF ANSTEY CROSS
that bloated face, this woman had once been
very beautiful. She put out a hand, with all
the fingers going as if she were playing on
the harpsichord, and she touched Jim on the
shoulder.
“I hope—I hope you're well,” she stam-
mered.
“Very well, ma'am,” said Jim, staring from
her to his uncle.
“And happy too?”
“Yes, ma'am, I thank you.”
“Nothing that you crave for ?”
“Why, no, ma'am, I have all that I lack.”
“That will do, Jim,” said his uncle, in a stern
voice. “Blow up the forge again, for that shoe
wants reheating.”
But it seemed as if the woman had something
else that she would say, for she was angry that
he should be sent away. Her eyes gleamed, and
her head tossed, while the smith with his two
big hands outspread seemed to be soothing her
as best he could. For a long time they whis-
pered until at last she appeared to be satisfied.
“To-morrow, then ?” she cried loud out.
“To-morrow,” he answered.
“You keep your word and I'll keep mine,”
said she, and dropped the lash on the pony's
back. The smith stood with the rasp in his
hand, looking after her until she was just a little
41


RODNEY STONE
red spot on the white road. Then he turned,
and I never saw his face so grave.
“Jim,” said he, “that's Miss Hinton, who has
come to live at The Maples, out Anstey Cross
way. She's taken a kind of a fancy to you, Jim,
and maybe she can help you on a bit. I prom-
ised her that you would go over and see her to-
morrow.”
“I don't want her help, uncle, and I don't
want to see her.”
“But I've promised, Jim, and you wouldn't
make me out a liar. She does but want to talk
with you, for it is a lonely life she leads.”
“What would she want to talk with such as
me about?”
“Why, I cannot say that, but she seemed
very set upon it, and women have their fancies.
There's young Master Stone here who wouldn't
refuse to go and see a good lady, I'll warrant, if he
thought he might better his fortune by doing so.”
“Well, uncle, I'll go if Roddy Stone will go
with me,” said Jim.
“Of course he'll go. Won't you, Master
Rodney?”
So it ended in my saying “yes,” and back I
went with all my news to my mother, who
dearly loved a little bit of gossip. She shook
her head when she heard where I was going, but
she did not say nay, and so it was settled.
42


PLAY-ACTRESS OF ANSTEY CROSS
It was a good four miles of a walk, but when
we reached it you would not wish to see a more
cosy little house: all honeysuckle and creepers,
with a wooden porch and lattice windows. A
common-looking woman opened the door for us.
“Miss Hinton cannot see you,” said she.
“But she asked us to come,” said Jim.
“I can't help that,” cried the woman, in a rude
voice. “I tell you that she can't see you.”
We stood irresolute for a minute.
“Maybe you would just tell her I am here,”
said Jim, at last.
“Tell her ! How am I to tell her when she
couldn't so much as hear a pistol in her ears?
Try and tell her yourself, if you have a mind
to.”
She threw open a door as she spoke, and
there, in a reclining chair at the further end of
the room, we caught a glimpse of a figure all
lumped together, huge and shapeless, with tails
of black hair hanging down. The sound of
dreadful, swine-like breathing fell upon our ears.
It was but a glance, and then we were off hot-
foot for home. As for me, I was so young that
I was not sure whether this was funny or terri-
ble; but when I looked at Jim to see how he
took it, he was looking quite white and ill.
“You'll not tell any one, Roddy,” said he.
“Not unless it's my mother.”
4 43


RODNEY STONE
“I won't even tell my uncle. I'll say she was
ill, the poor lady! It's enough that we should
have seen her in her shame, without its being
the gossip of the village. It makes me feel sick
and heavy at heart.”
“She was so yesterday, Jim.”
“Was she? I never marked it. But I know
that she has kind eyes and a kind heart, for I saw
the one in the other when she looked at me.
Maybe it's the want of a friend that has driven
her to this.”
It blighted his spirits for days, and when it had
all gone from my mind it was brought back to
me by his manner. But it was not to be our
last memory of the lady with the scarlet pelisse,
for before the week was out Jim came round to
ask me if I would again go up with him.
“My uncle has had a letter,” said he. “She
would speak with me, and I would be easier if
you came with me, Rod.”
For me it was only a pleasure outing, but I
could see, as we drew near the house, that Jim
was troubling in his mind lest we should find
that things were amiss. His fears were soon set
at rest, however, for we had scarce clicked the
garden gate before the woman was out of the
door of the cottage and running down the path
to meet us. She was so strange a figure, with
some sort of purple wrapper on, and her big,
44


PLAY-ACTRESS OF ANSTEY CROSS
flushed face smiling out of it, that I might, if I
had been alone, have taken to my heels at the
sight of her. Even Jim stopped for a moment
as if he were not very sure of himself, but her
hearty ways soon set us at our ease.
“It is indeed good of you to come and see an
old, lonely woman,” said she, “and I owe you
an apology that I should give you a fruitless
journey on Tuesday, but in a sense you were
yourselves the cause of it, since the thought of
your coming had excited me, and any excitement
throws me into a nervous fever. My poor nerves!
You can see for yourselves how they serve me.”
She held out her twitching hands as she spoke.
Then she passed one of them through Jim's arm,
and walked with him up the path.
“You must let me know you, and know you
well,” said she. “Your uncle and aunt are quite
old acquaintances of mine, and though you can-
not remember me, I have held you in my arms
when you were an infant. Tell me, little man,”
she added, turning to me, “what do you call
your friend?”
“Boy Jim, ma'am,” said I.
“Then if you will not think me forward, I will
call you Boy Jim also. We elderly people have
our privileges, you know. And now you shall
come in with me, and we will take a dish of tea
together.”
45


RODNEY STONE
She led the way into a cosy room—the same
which we had caught a glimpse of when last we
came—and there, in the middle, was a table with
white napery, and shining glass, and gleaming
china, and red-cheeked apples piled upon a cen-
tre-dish, and a great plateful of smoking muffins
which the cross-faced maid had just carried in.
You can think that we did justice to all the good
things, and Miss Hinton would ever keep press-
ing us to pass our cup and to fill our plate. Twice
during our meal she rose from her chair and with-
drew into a cupboard at the end of the room,
and each time I saw Jim's face cloud, for we
heard a gentle clink of glass against glass.
“Come now, little man,” said she to me, when
the table had been cleared. “Why are you
looking round so much '"
“Because there are so many pretty things upon
the walls.”
“And which do you think the prettiest of
them 4 °
“Why, that!” said I, pointing to a picture
which hung opposite to me. It was of a tall and
slender girl, with the rosiest cheeks and the ten-
derest eyes—so daintily dressed, too, that I had
never seen anything more perfect. She had a
posy of flowers in her hand and another one was
lying upon the planks of wood upon which she
was standing.
46


PLAY-ACTRESS OF ANSTEY CROSS
“Oh, that's the prettiest, is it?” said she,
laughing. “Well, now, walk up to it, and let us
hear what is writ beneath it.”
I did as she asked, and read out: “Miss Polly
Hinton, as ‘Peggy, in The Country Wife, played
for her benefit at the Haymarket Theatre, Sep-
tember 14th, 1782.”
“It's a play-actress,” said I.
“Oh, you rude little boy, to say it in such a
tone,” said she; “as if a play-actress wasn't as
good as any one else. Why, 'twas but the other
day that the Duke of Clarence, who may come
to call himself King of England, married Mrs.
Jordan, who is herself only a play-actress. And
whom think you that this one is?”
She stood under the picture with her arms
folded across her great body, and her big black
eyes looking from one to the other of us.
“Why, where are your eyes?” she cried at
last. “I was Miss Polly Hinton of the Hay-
market Theatre. And perhaps you never heard
the name before?”
We were compelled to confess that we never
had. And the very name of play-actress had
filled us both with a kind of vague horror, like
the country-bred folk that we were. To us
they were a class apart, to be hinted at rather
than named, with the wrath of the Almighty
hanging over them like a thundercloud. Indeed,
47


RODNEY STONE
His judgments seemed to be in visible operation
before us when we looked upon what this woman
was, and what she had been.
“Well,” said she, laughing like one who is hurt,
“you have no cause to say anything, for I read
on your face what you have been taught to think
of me. So this is the upbringing that you have
had, Jim—to think evil of that which you do not
understand I wish you had been in the theatre
that very night with Prince Florizel and four
Dukes in the boxes, and all the wits and maca-
ronis of London rising at me in the pit. If Lord
Avon had not given me a cast in his carriage, I
had never got my flowers back to my lodgings
in York Street, Westminster. And now two lit-
tle country lads are sitting injudgment upon me!”
Jim's pride brought a flush on to his cheeks,
for he did not like to be called a country lad, or
to have it supposed that he was so far behind the
grand folk in London.
“I have never been inside a play-house,” said
he; “I know nothing of them.”
“Nor I either.”
“Well,” said she, “I am not in voice, and it is
ill to play in a little room with but two to listen,
but you must conceive me to be the Queen of
the Peruvians, who is exhorting her countrymen
to rise up against the Spaniards, who are op-
pressing them.”
48


PLAY-ACTRESS OF ANSTEY CROSS
And straightway that coarse, swollen woman
became a queen—the grandest, haughtiest queen
that you could dream of—and she turned upon
us with such words of fire, such lightning eyes
and sweeping of her white hand, that she held us
spellbound in our chairs. Her voice was soft
and sweet, and persuasive at the first, but louder
it rang and louder as it spoke of wrongs and
freedom and the joys of death in a good cause,
until it thrilled into my every nerve, and I asked
nothing more than to run out of the cottage
and to die then and there in the cause of my
country. And then in an instant she changed.
She was a poor woman now, who had lost
her only child, and who was bewailing it. Her
voice was full of tears, and what she said was
so simple, so true, that we both seemed to
see the dead babe stretched there on the carpet
before us, and we could have joined in with
words of pity and of grief. And then, before
our cheeks were dry, she was back into her old
self again.
“How like you that, then?” she cried. “That
was my way in the days when Sally Siddons
would turn green at the name of Polly Hinton.
It's a fine play, is Pizarro.”
“And who wrote it, ma'am ?”
“Who wrote it 2 I never heard. What mat-
ter who did the writing of it! But there are
49


RODNEY STONE
some great lines for one who knows how they
should be spoken.”
“And you play no longer, ma'am ?”
“No, Jim, I left the boards when—when I
was weary of them. But my heart goes back to
them sometimes. It seems to me there is no
smell like that of the hot oil in the footlights and
of the oranges in the pit. But you are sad,
Jim.”
“It was but the thought of that poor woman
and her child.”
“Tut, never think about her ! I will soon
wipe her from your mind. This is “Miss Pris-
cilla Tomboy, from The Romp. You must con-
ceive that the mother is speaking, and that the
forward young minx is answering.”
And she began a scene between the two of
them, so exact in voice and manner that it seemed
to us as if there were really two folk before us:
the stern old mother with her hand up like an
ear-trumpet, and her flouncing, bouncing daugh-
ter. Her great figure danced about with a won-
derful lightness, and she tossed her head and
pouted her lips as she answered back to the old,
bent figure that addressed her. Jim and I had
forgotten our tears, and were holding our ribs
before she came to the end of it.
“That is better,” said she, smiling at our
laughter. “I would not have you go back to
50


RODNEY STONE
then, I'll make you a promise, if you'll make me
one in return.”
“What's that, miss "
“No drop shall pass my lips, Jim, if you will
swear, wet or shine, blow or snow, to come up
here twice in every week, that I may see you
and speak with you, for, indeed, there are times
when I am very lonesome.”
So the promise was made, and very faithfully
did Jim keep it, for many a time when I have
wanted him to go fishing or rabbit-snaring, he
has remembered that it was his day for Miss
Hinton, and has tramped off to Anstey Cross.
At first I think that she found her share of the
bargain hard to keep, and I have seen Jim come
back with a black face on him, as if things were
going amiss. But after a time the fight was
won—as all fights are won if one does but fight
long enough—and in the year before my father
came back Miss Hinton had become another
woman. And it was not her ways only, but
herself as well, for from being the person that I
have described, she became in one twelvemonth
as fine a looking lady as there was in the whole
country-side. Jim was prouder of it by far than
of anything he had had a hand in in his life, but it
was only to me that he ever spoke about it, for
he had that tenderness towards her that one has
for those whom one has helped. And she helped
52


PLAY-ACTRESS OF ANSTEY CROSS
him also, for by her talk of the world and of
what she had seen, she took his mind away from
the Sussex country-side and prepared it for a
broader life beyond. So matters stood between
them at the time when peace was made and my
father came home from the sea.
53


CHAPTER IV
THE PEACE OF AMIENS
MANY a woman's knee was on the ground, and
many a woman's soul spent itself in joy and
thankfulness when the news came with the fall
of the leaf in 1801 that the preliminaries of
peace had been settled. All England waved
her gladness by day and twinkled it by night.
Even in little Friar's Oak we had our flags fly-
ing bravely, and a candle in every window, with
a big G.R. guttering in the wind over the door
of the inn. Folk were weary of the war, for we
had been at it for eight years, taking Holland,
and Spain, and France each in turn and all to-
gether. All that we had learned during that
time was that our little army was no match for
the French on land, and that our large navy was
more than a match for them upon the water.
We had gained some credit, which we were
sorely in need of after the American business;
and a few Colonies, which were welcome also
for the same reason; but our debt had gone on
rising and our consols sinking, until even Pitt
stood aghast. Still, if we had known that there
never could be peace between Napoleon and
54


RODNEY STONE
the Mediterranean in '97, and in the first which
had re-entered it in '98. He was under Miller,
as third lieutenant of the Theseus, when our
fleet, like a pack of eager fox hounds in a covert,
was dashing from Sicily to Syria and back again
to Naples, trying to pick up the lost scent.
With the same good fighting man he served
at the Nile, where the men of his command
sponged and rammed and trained until, when
the last tricolour had come down, they hove up
the sheet anchor and fell dead asleep upon the
top of each other under the capstan bars. Then,
as a second lieutenant, he was in one of those
grim three-deckers with powder-blackened hulls
and crimson scupper-holes, their spare cables tied
round their keels and over their bulwarks to
hold them together, which carried the news into
the Bay of Naples. From thence, as a reward
for his services, he was transferred as first lieu-
tenant to the Aurora frigate, engaged in cutting
off supplies from Genoa, and in her he still re-
mained until long after peace was declared.
How well I can remember his home-coming !
Though it is now eight-and-forty years ago, it is
clearer to me than the doings of last week, for
the memory of an old man is like one of those
glasses which shows out what is at a distance
and blurs all that is near.
My mother had been in a tremble ever since
56
|


THE PEACE OF AMIENS
the first rumour of the preliminaries came to our
ears, for she knew that he might come as soon
as his message. She said little, but she sad-
dened my life by insisting that I should be for
ever clean and tidy. With every rumble of
wheels, too, her eyes would glance towards the
door, and her hands steal up to smooth her
pretty black hair. She had embroidered a white
“Welcome” upon a blue ground, with an an-
chor in red upon each side, and a border of laurel
leaves; and this was to hang upon the two lilac
bushes which flanked the cottage door. He
could not have left the Mediterranean before we
had this finished, and every morning she looked
to see if it were in its place and ready to be
hanged.
But it was a weary time before the peace was
ratified, and it was April of next year before our
great day came round to us. It had been rain-
ing all morning, I remember—a soft spring rain,
which sent up a rich smell from the brown earth
and pattered pleasantly upon the budding chest-
nuts behind our cottage. The sun had shone
out in the evening, and I had come down with
my fishing-rod (for I had promised Boy Jim to
go with him to the mill-stream), when what
should I see but a post-chaise with two smoking
horses at the gate, and there in the open door of
it were my mother's black skirt and her little
57


RODNEY STONE
feet jutting out, with two blue arms for a waist-
belt, and all the rest of her buried in the chaise.
Away I ran for the motto, and I pinned it up
on the bushes as we had agreed, but when I had
finished there were the skirts and the feet and
the blue arms just the same as before.
“Here's Rod,” said my mother at last, strug-
gling down on to the ground again. “Roddy,
darling, here's your father !”
I saw the red face and the kindly, light-blue
eyes looking out at me.
“Why, Roddy, lad, you were but a child and
we kissed good-bye when last we met; but I
suppose we must put you on a different rating
now. I'm right glad from my heart to see you,
dear lad; and as to you, sweetheart ” The
blue arms flew out, and there were the skirt and
the two feet fixed in the door again.
“Here are the folk coming, Anson,” said my
mother, blushing. “Won't you get out and
come in with us?”
And then suddenly it came home to us both
that for all his cheery face he had never moved
more than his arms, and that his leg was resting
on the opposite seat of the chaise.
“Oh, Anson, Anson l” she cried.
“Tut, 'tis but the bone of my leg,” said he,
taking his knee between his hands and lifting it
round. “I got it broke in the Bay, but the
58


THE PEACE OF AMIENS
surgeon has fished it and spliced it, though it's a
bit crank yet. Why, bless her kindly heart, if I
haven't turned her from pink to white. You
can see for yourself that it's nothing.”
He sprang out as he spoke, and with one leg
and a staff he hopped swiftly up the path, and
under the laurel-bordered motto, and so over
his own threshold for the first time for five years.
When the post-boy and I had carried up the
sea-chest and the two canvas bags, there he was
sitting in his armchair by the window in his old
weather-stained blue coat. My mother was
weeping over his poor leg, and he patting her
hair with one brown hand. His other he threw
round my waist, and drew me to the side of his
chair.
“Now that we have peace, I can lie up and
refit until King George needs me again,” said
he “”Twas a carronade that came adrift in the
Bay when it was blowing a top-gallant breeze
with a beam sea. Ere we could make it fast
it had me jammed against the mast. Well,
well,” he added, looking round at the walls of
the room, “here are all my old curios, the same
as ever: the narwhal's horn from the Arctic, and
the blowfish from the Moluccas, and the paddles
from Fiji, and the picture of the Ca Ira with
Lord Hotham in chase. And here you are,
Mary, and you also, Roddy, and good luck to
5 59


RODNEY STONE
the carronade which has sent me into so snug a
harbour without fear of sailing orders.”
My mother had his long pipe and his tobacco
all ready for him, so that he was able now to
light it and to sit looking from one of us to the
other and then back again, as if he could never
see enough of us. Young as I was, I could still
understand that this was the moment which he
had thought of during many a lonely watch, and
that the expectation of it had cheered his heart
in many a dark hour. Sometimes he would
touch one of us with his hand, and sometimes
the other, and so he sat, with his soul too sati-
ated for words, whilst the shadows gathered in
the little room and the lights of the inn windows
glimmered through the gloom. And then, after
my mother had lit our own lamp, she slipped
suddenly down upon her knees, and he got one
knee to the ground also, so that, hand-in-hand,
they joined their thanks to Heaven for manifold
mercies. When I look back at my parents as
they were in those days, it is at that very mo-
ment that I can picture them most clearly: her
sweet face with the wet shining upon her cheeks,
and his blue eyes upturned to the smoke-black-
ened ceiling. I remember that he swayed his
reeking pipe in the earnestness of his prayer, so
that I was half tears and half smiles as I watched
him.
60


THE PEACE OF AMIENS
“Roddy, lad,” said he, after supper was over,
“you're getting a man now, and I suppose you
will go afloat like the rest of us. You're old
enough to strap a dirk to your thigh.”
“And leave me without a child as well as
without a husband !” cried my mother.
“Well, there's time enough yet,” said he,
“for they are more inclined to empty berths
than to fill them, now that peace has come.
But I’ve never tried what all this schooling has
done for you, Rodney. You have had a great
deal more than ever I had, but I dare say I can
make shift to test it. Have you learned his-
tory?”
“Yes, father,” said I, with some confidence.
“Then how many sail of the line were at the
Battle of Camperdown?”
He shook his head gravely when he found
that I could not answer him.
“Why, there are men in the fleet who never
had any schooling at all who could tell you that
we had seven 74's, seven 64's, and two 50-gun
ships in the action. There's a picture on the
wall of the chase of the Ca Ira. Which were
the ships that laid her aboard?”
Again I had to confess that he had beaten me.
“Well, your dad can teach you something in
history yet,” he cried, looking in triumph at my
mother. “Have you learned geography?”
61


RODNEY STONE
“Yes, father,” said I, though with less confi-
dence than before.
“Well, how far is it from Port Mahon to
Algeciras?” I could only shake my head.
“If Ushant lay three leagues upon your star-
board quarter, what would be your nearest Eng-
lish port?”
Again I had to give it up.
“Well, I don't see that your geography is
much better than your history,” said he. “You’d
never get your certificate at this rate. Can you
do addition? Well, then, let us see if you can
tot up my prize-money.”
He shot a mischievous glance at my mother
as he spoke, and she laid down her knitting on
her lap and looked very earnestly at him.
“You never asked me about that, Mary,” said he.
“The Mediterranean is not the station for it,
Anson. I have heard you say that it is the At-
lantic for prize-money, and the Mediterranean for
honour.”
“I had a share of both last cruise, which comes
from changing a line-of-battleship for a frigate.
Now, Rodney, there are two pounds in every
hundred due to me when the prize-courts have
done with them. When we were watching
Massena, off Genoa, we got a matter of seventy
schooners, brigs, and tartans, with wine, food,
and powder. Lord Keith will want his finger
62


THE PEACE OF AMIENS
in the pie, but that's for the Courts to settle.
Put them at four pounds apiece to me, and what
will the seventy bring?”
“Two hundred and eighty pounds,” I an-
swered.
“Why, Anson, it is a fortune!” cried my
mother, clapping her hands.
“Try you again, Roddy!” said he, shaking
his pipe at me. “There was the Xebec frigate
out of Barcelona with twenty thousand Spanish
dollars aboard, which make four thousand of our
pounds. Her hull should be worth another
thousand. What's my share of that?”
“A hundred pounds.”
“Why, the purser couldn't work it out
quicker,” he cried in his delight. “Here's for
you again! We passed the Straits and worked
up to the Azores, where we fell in with the La
Sabina from the Mauritius with sugar and
spices. Twelve hundred pounds she's worth to
me, Mary, my darling, and never again shall you
soil your pretty fingers or pinch upon my beg-
garly pay.”
My dear mother had borne her long struggle
without a sign all these years, but now that she
was so suddenly eased of it she fell sobbing upon
his neck. It was a long time before my father
had a thought to spare upon my examination in
arithmetic.
63


RODNEY STONE
“It's all in your lap, Mary,” said he, dashing
his own hand across his eyes. “By George, lass,
when this leg of mine is sound we'll bear down
for a spell to Brighton, and if there is a smarter
frock than yours upon the Steyne, may I never
tread a poop again. But how is it that you are
so quick at figures, Rodney, when you know
nothing of history or geography?”
I tried to explain that addition was the same
upon sea or land, but that history and geography
Were not.
“Well,” he concluded, “you need figures to
take a reckoning, and you need nothing else save
what your mother wit will teach you. There
never was one of our breed who did not take to
salt water like a young gull. Lord Nelson has
promised me a vacancy for you, and he'll be as
good as his word.”
So it was that my father came home to us,
and a better or kinder no lad could wish for.
Though my parents had been married so long,
they had really seen very little of each other,
and their affection was as warm and as fresh as
if they were two newly-wedded lovers. I have
learned since that sailors can be coarse and foul,
but never did I know it from my father; for,
although he had seen as much rough work as
the wildest could wish for, he was always the
same patient, good-humoured man, with a smile
64


THE PEACE OF AMIENS
and a jolly word for all the village. He could
suit himself to his company, too, for on the one
hand he could take his wine with the vicar, or
with Sir James Ovington, the squire of the par-
ish; while on the other he would sit by the hour
amongst my humble friends down in the Smithy,
with Champion Harrison, Boy Jim, and the rest
of them, telling them such stories of Nelson and
his men that I have seen the Champion knot his
great hands together, while Jim's eyes have
smouldered like the forge embers as he lis-
tened.
My father had been placed on half-pay, like so
many others of the old war officers, and so, for
nearly two years, he was able to remain with us.
During all this time I can only once remember
that there was the slightest disagreement be-
tween him and my mother. It chanced that I
was the cause of it, and as great events sprang
out of it, I must tell you how it came about.
It was indeed the first of a series of events which
affected not only my fortunes, but those of very
much more important people.
The spring of 1803 was an early one, and the
middle of April saw the leaves thick upon the
chestnut trees. One evening we were all seated
together over a dish of tea when we heard the
scrunch of steps outside our door, and there was
the postman with a letter in his hand.
65


RODNEY STONE
“I think it is for me,” said my mother, and
sure enough it was addressed in the most beauti-
ful writing to Mrs. Mary Stone, of Friar's Oak,
and there was a red seal the size of a half-crown
upon the outside of it with a flying dragon in
the middle.
“Whom think you that it is from, Anson?”
she asked.
“I had hoped that it was from Lord Nelson,”
answered my father. “It is time the boy had
his commission. But if it be for you, then
it cannot be from any one of much import-
ance.”
“Can it not!” she cried, pretending to be
offended. “You will ask my pardon for that
speech, sir, for it is from no less a person than
Sir Charles Tregellis, my own brother.”
My mother seemed to speak with a hushed
voice when she mentioned this wonderful brother
of hers, and always had done as long as I can
remember, so that I had learned also to have a
subdued and reverent feeling when I heard his
name. And indeed it was no wonder, for that
name was never mentioned unless it were in
connection with something brilliant and extra-
ordinary. Once we heard that he was at Wind-
sor with the King. Often he was at Brighton
with the Prince. Sometimes it was as a sports-
man that his reputation reached us, as when his
66


THE PEACE OF AMIENS
Meteor beat the Duke of Queensberry's Egham,
at Newmarket, or when he brought Jim Belcher
up from Bristol, and sprang him upon the Lon-
don fancy. But usually it was as the friend of
the great, the arbiter of fashions, the king of
bucks, and the best-dressed man in town that
his reputation reached us. My father, however,
did not appear to be elated at my mother's
triumphant rejoinder.
“Ay, and what does he want?” asked he, in
no very amiable voice.
“I wrote to him, Anson, and told him that
Rodney was growing a man now, thinking, since
he had no wife or child of his own, he might be
disposed to advance him.”
“We can do very well without him,” growled
my father. “He sheered off from us when the
weather was foul, and we have no need of him
now that the sun is shining.”
“Nay, you misjudge him, Anson,” said my
mother, warmly. “There is no one with a better
heart than Charles; but his own life moves so
smoothly that he cannot understand that others
may have trouble. During all these years I
have known that I had but to say the word to
receive as much as I wished from him.”
“Thank God that you never had to stoop to
it, Mary. I want none of his help.”
“But we must think of Rodney.”
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RODNEY STONE
“Rodney has enough for his sea-chest and kit.
He needs no more.”
“But Charles has great power and influence in
London. He could make Rodney known to all
the great people. Surely you would not stand
in the way of his advancement.”
“Let us hear what he says, then,” said my
father; and this was the letter which she read to
him—
“14, Jermyn Street, St. James's,
“April 15th, 1803.
“MY DEAR SISTER MARY,
“In answer to your letter, I can assure
you that you must not conceive me to be want-
ing in those finer feelings which are the chief
adornment of humanity. It is true that for
some years, absorbed as I have been in affairs of
the highest importance, I have seldom taken a
pen in hand, for which I can assure you that I
have been reproached by many des plus char-
mantes of your charming sex. At the present
moment I lie abed (having stayed late in order
to pay a compliment to the Marchioness of
Dover at her ball last night), and this is writ to
my dictation by Ambrose, my clever rascal of a
valet. I am interested to hear of my nephew
Rodney (Mon dieu, quel nom /), and as I shall be
on my way to visit the Prince at Brighton next
week, I shall break my journey at Friar's Oak
68


THE PEACE OF AMIENS
for the sake of seeing both you and him. Make
my compliments to your husband.
“I am ever, my dear sister Mary,
“Your brother,
“CHARLES TREGELLIS.”
“What do you think of that?” cried my
mother in triumph when she had finished.
“I think it is the letter of a fop,” said my
father, bluntly.
“You are too hard on him, Anson. You will
think better of him when you know him. But
he says that he will be here next week, and this
is Thursday, and the best curtains unhung, and
no lavender in the sheets l”
Away she bustled, half distracted, while my
father sat moody, with his chin upon his hands,
and I remained lost in wonder at the thought of
this grand new relative from London, and of all
that his coming might mean to us.
69


CHAPTER V
BUCK TREGELLIS
Now that I was in my seventeenth year, and had
already some need for a razor, I had begun to
weary of the narrow life of the village, and to
long to see something of the great world beyond.
The craving was all the stronger because I durst
not speak openly about it, for the least hint of it
brought the tears into my mother's eyes. But
now there was the less reason that I should stay
at home, since my father was at her side, and so
my mind was all filled by this prospect of my
uncle's visit, and of the chance that he might set
my feet moving at last upon the road of life.
As you may think, it was towards my father's
profession that my thoughts and my hopes turned,
for from my childhood I have never seen the
heave of the sea or tasted the salt upon my lips
without feeling the blood of five generations of
seamen thrill within my veins. And think of
the challenge which was ever waving in those
days before the eyes of a coast-living lad! I had
but to walk up to Wolstonbury in the war time
to see the sails of the French chasse-marées
and privateers. Again:nd again I have heard


BUCK TREGELLIS
the roar of the guns coming from far out over the
waters. Seamen would tell us how they had left
London and been engaged ere nightfall, or sailed
out of Portsmouth and been yard-arm to yard-
arm before they had lost sight of St. Helen's
light. It was this imminence of the danger
which warmed our hearts to our sailors, and
made us talk, round the winter fires, of our little
Nelson, and Cuddie Collingwood, and Johnnie
Jarvis, and the rest of them, not as being great
High Admirals with titles and dignities, but as
good friends whom we loved and honoured above
all others. What boy was there through the
length and breadth of Britain who did not long
to be out with them under the red-cross flag?
But now that peace had come, and the fleets
which had swept the Channel and the Mediter-
ranean were lying dismantled in our harbours,
there was less to draw one's fancy seawards. It
was London now of which I thought by day and
brooded by night: the huge city, the home of
the wise and the great, from which came this
constant stream of carriages, and those crowds of
dusty people who were for ever flashing past our
window-pane. It was this one side of life which
first presented itself to me, and so, as a boy, I
used to picture the City as a gigantic stable with
a huge huddle of coaches, which were for ever
streaming off down the country roads. But,
71


RODNEY STONE
then, Champion Harrison told me how the fight-
ing-men lived there, and my father how the heads
of the Navy lived there, and my mother how her
brother and his grand friends were there, until at
last I was consumed with impatience to see this
marvellous heart of England. This coming of
my uncle, then, was the breaking of light through
the darkness, though I hardly dared to hope that
he would take me with him into those high cir-
cles in which he lived. My mother, however,
had such confidence either in his good nature or
in her own powers of persuasion, that she already
began to make furtive preparations for my de-
parture.
But if the narrowness of the village life chafed
my easy spirit, it was a torture to the keen and
ardent mind of Boy Jim. It was but a few days
after the coming of my uncle's letter that we
walked over the Downs together, and I had a
peep of the bitterness of his heart.
“What is there for me to do, Rodney?” he
cried. “I forge a shoe, and I fuller it, and I clip
it, and I caulken it, and I knock five holes in it,
and there it is finished. Then I do it again and
again, and blow up the bellows and feed the
forge, and rasp a hoof or two, and there is a day's
work done, and every day the same as the other.
Was it for this only, do you think, that I was
born into the world?”
72


BUCK TREGELLIS
I looked at him, his proud, eagle face, and his
tall, sinewy figure, and I wondered whether in
the whole land there was a finer, handsomer man.
“The Army or the Navy is the place for you,
Jim,” said I.
“That is very well,” he cried. “If you go
into the Navy, as you are likely to do, you go as
an officer, and it is you who do the ordering. If
I go in, it is as one who was born to receive or-
ders.”
“An officer gets his orders from those above
him.”
“But an officer does not have the lash hung
over his head. I saw a poor fellow at the inn
here—it was some years ago—who showed us
his back in the tap-room, all cut into red diamonds
with the boatswain's whip. “Who ordered that?”
I asked. “The captain, said he. “And what
would you have had if you had struck him dead?’
said I. ‘The yard-arm, he answered. ‘Then
if I had been you that's where I should have
been, said I, and I spoke the truth. I can't
help it, Rod | There's something here in my
heart, something that is as much a part of my-
self as this hand is, which holds me to it.”
“I know that you are as proud as Lucifer,”
said I.
“It was born with me, Roddy, and I can't
help it. Life would be easier if I could. I was
73


RODNEY STONE
made to be my own master, and there's only one
place where I can hope to be so.”
“Where is that, Jim * *
“In London. Miss Hinton has told me of it,
until I feel as if I could find my way through it
from end to end. She loves to talk of it as well
as I do to listen. I have it all laid out in my
mind, and I can see where the playhouses are,
and how the river runs, and where the King's
house is, and the Prince's, and the place where
the fighting-men live. I could make my name
known in London.”
“HOW 2 ”
“Never mind how, Rod. I could do it, and I
will do it, too. “Wait!’ says my uncle—‘wait,
and it will all come right for you.” That is what
he always says, and my aunt the same. Why
should I wait? What am I to wait for ? No,
Roddy, I'll stay no longer eating my heart out
in this little village, but I'll leave my apron be-
hind me and I'll seek my fortune in London,
and when I come back to Friar's Oak, it will be
in such style as that gentleman yonder.”
He pointed as he spoke, and there was a high
crimson mail phaeton coming down the London
road, with two bay mares harnessed tandem
fashion before it. The reins and fittings were of
a light fawn colour, and the gentleman had a
driving-coat to match, with a servant in dark
74


BUCK TREGELLIS
livery behind. They flashed past us in a rolling
cloud of dust, and I had just a glimpse of the
pale, handsome face of the master, and of the
dark, shrivelled features of the man. I should
never have given them another thought had it
not chanced that when the village came into view
there was the mail phaeton again, standing at the
door of the inn, and the grooms busy taking out
the horses.
“Jim,” I cried, “I believe it is my uncle!”
and taking to my heels I ran for home at the top
of my speed. At the door was standing the
dark-faced servant. He carried a cushion, upon
which lay a small and fluffy lapdog.
“You will excuse me, young sir,” said he, in
the suavest, most soothing of voices, “but am I
right in supposing that this is the house of Lieu-
tenant Stone? In that case you will, perhaps,
do me the favour to hand to Mrs. Stone this note
which her brother, Sir Charles Tregellis, has just
committed to my care.”
I was quite abashed by the man's flowery way
of talking—so unlike anything which I had ever
heard. He had a wizened face, and sharp little
dark eyes, which took in me and the house and
my mother's startled face at the window all in
the instant. My parents were together, the two
of them, in the sitting-room, and my mother
read the note to us.
6 75


RODNEY STONE
“My dear Mary,” it ran, “I have stopped at
the inn, because I am somewhat ravage by the
dust of your Sussex roads. A lavender-water
bath may restore me to a condition in which I
may fitly pay my compliments to a lady. Mean-
time, I send you Fidelio as a hostage. Pray
give him a half-pint of warmish milk with six
drops of pure brandy in it. A better or more
faithful creature never lived. Toujours à toi.—
Charles.”
“Have him in I Have him in 1” cried my
father, heartily, running to the door. “Come in,
Mr. Fidelio. Every man to his own taste, and
six drops to the half-pint seems a sinful watering
of grog—but if you like it so, you shall have it.”
A smile flickered over the dark face of the
servant, but his features reset themselves in-
stantly into their usual mask of respectful ob-
SeIVåI1CC.
“You are labouring under a slight error, sir, if
you will permit me to say so. My name is Am-
brose, and I have the honour to be the valet of
Sir Charles Tregellis. This is Fidelio upon the
cushion.”
“Tut, the dog!” cried my father, in disgust.
“Heave him down by the fireside. Why should
he have brandy, when many a Christian has to
go without?”
“Hush, Anson!” said my mother, taking the
76


BUCK TREGELLIS
cushion. “You will tell Sir Charles that his
wishes shall be carried out, and that we shall
expect him at his own convenience.”
The man went off noiselessly and swiftly, but
was back in a few minutes with a flat brown
basket.
“It is the refection, madam,” said he. “Will
you permit me to lay the table? Sir Charles is
accustomed to partake of certain dishes and to
drink certain wines, so that we usually bring
them with us when we visit.” He opened the
basket, and in a minute he had the table all
shining with silver and glass, and studded with
dainty dishes. So quick and neat and silent was
he in all he did, that my father was as taken with
him as I was.
“You’d have made a right good foretopman if
your heart is as stout as your fingers are quick,”
said he. “Did you never wish to have the
honour of serving your country?”
“It is my honour, sir, to serve Sir Charles
Tregellis, and I desire no other master,” he an-
swered. “But I will convey his dressing-case
from the inn, and then all will be ready.”
He came back with a great silver-mounted
box under his arm, and close at his heels was the
gentleman whose coming had made such a dis-
turbance.
My first impression of my uncle as he entered
77


RODNEY STONE
the room was that one of his eyes was swollen
to the size of an apple. It caught the breath
from my lips—that monstrous, glistening eye.
But the next instant I perceived that he held a
round glass in the front of it, which magnified it
in this fashion. He looked at us each in turn,
and then he bowed very gracefully to my mother
and kissed her upon either cheek.
“You will permit me to compliment you, my
dear Mary,” said he, in a voice which was the
most mellow and beautiful that I have ever
heard. “I can assure you that the country air
has used you wondrous well, and that I should
be proud to see my pretty sister in the Mall. I
am your servant, sir,” he continued, holding out
his hand to my father. “It was but last week
that I had the honour of dining with my friend,
Lord St. Vincent, and I took occasion to men-
tion you to him. I may tell you that your name
is not forgotten at the Admiralty, sir, and I hope
that I may see you soon walking the poop of a
74-gun ship of your own. So this is my nephew,
is it?” He put a hand upon each of my shoul-
ders in a very friendly way and looked me up
and down.
“How old are you, nephew 2° he asked.
“Seventeen, sir.”
“You look older. You look eighteen, at the
least. I find him very passable, Mary—very
78


BUCK TREGELLIS
/
passable, indeed. He has not the bel air, the
tournure—in our uncouth English we have no
word for it. But he is as healthy as a May-
hedge in bloom.”
So within a minute of his entering our door
he had got himself upon terms with all of us, and
with so easy and graceful a manner that it seemed
as if he had known us all for years. I had a
good look at him now as he stood upon the
hearthrug, with my mother upon one side and my
father on the other. He was a very large man,
with noble shoulders, small waist, broad hips,
well-turned legs, and the smallest of hands and
feet. His face was pale and handsome, with a
prominent chin, a jutting nose, and large blue
staring eyes, in which a sort of dancing, mischiev-
ous light was for ever playing. He wore a deep
brown coat with a collar as high as his ears and
tails as low as his knees. His black breeches and
silk stockings ended in very small pointed shoes,
so highly polished that they twinkled with every
movement. His vest was of black velvet, open
at the top to show an embroidered shirt-front,
with a high, smooth, white cravat above it, which
kept his neck for ever on the stretch. He stood
easily, with one thumb in the arm-pit, and two
fingers of the other hand in his vest pocket. It
made me proud as I watched him to think that
so magnificent a man, with such easy, masterful
79


RODNEY STONE
ways, should be my own blood relation, and I
could see from my mother's eyes as they turned
towards him that the same thought was in her
mind.
All this time Ambrose had been standing like
a dark,clothed, bronze-faced image by the door,
with the big silver-bound box under his arm.
He stepped forward now into the room.
“Shall I convey it to your bedchamber, Sir
Charles ' " he asked.
“Ah, pardon me, sister Mary,” cried my uncle,
“I am old-fashioned enough to have principles—
an anachronism, I know, in this lax age. One
of them is never to allow my batterie de toi-
lette out of my sight when I am travelling. I
cannot readily forget the agonies which I en-
dured some years ago through neglecting this
precaution. I will do Ambrose the justice to
say that it was before he took charge of my af-
fairs. I was compelled to wear the same ruffles
upon two consecutive days. On the third morn-
ing my fellow was so affected by the sight of my
condition, that he burst into tears and laid out a
pair which he had stolen from me.”
As he spoke his face was very grave, but
the light in his eyes danced and gleamed.
He handed his open snuff-box to my father,
as Ambrose followed my mother out of the
TOOIn.
80


BUCK TREGELLIS
“You number yourself in an illustrious com-
pany by dipping your finger and thumb into it,”
said he.
“Indeed, sir!” said my father, shortly.
“You are free of my box, as being a relative
by marriage. You are free also, nephew, and I
pray you to take a pinch. It is the most inti-
mate sign of my goodwill. Outside ourselves
there are four, I think, who have had access to it—
the Prince, of course; Mr. Pitt ; Monsieur Otto,
the French Ambassador; and Lord Hawkesbury.
I have sometimes thought that I was premature
with Lord Hawkesbury.”
“I am vastly honoured, sir,” said my father,
looking suspiciously at his guest from under his
shaggy eyebrows, for with that grave face and
those twinkling eyes it was hard to know how to
take him.
“A woman, sir, has her love to bestow,” said
my uncle. “A man has his snuff-box. Neither
is to be lightly offered. It is a lapse of taste;
nay, more, it is a breach of morals. Only the
other day, as I was seated in Watier's, my box of
prime macouba open upon the table beside me,
an Irish bishop thrust in his intrusive fingers.
“Waiter, I cried, “my box has been soiled !
Remove it !” The man meant no insult, you
understand, but that class of people must be kept
in their proper sphere.”
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RODNEY STONE
“A bishop !” cried my father. “You draw
your line very high, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” said my uncle; “I wish no better
epitaph upon my tombstone.”
My mother had in the meanwhile descended,
and we all drew up to the table.
“You will excuse my apparent grossness,
Mary, in venturing to bring my own larder with
me. Abernethy has me under his orders, and I
must eschew your rich country dainties. A little
white wine and a cold bird—it is as much as the
niggardly Scotchman will allow me.”
“We should have you on blockading service
when the levanters are blowing,” said my father.
“Salt junk and weevilly biscuits, with a rib of
a tough Barbary ox when the tenders come in.
You would have your spare diet there, sir.”
Straightway my uncle began to question him
about the sea service, and for the whole meal my
father was telling him of the Nile and of the
Toulon blockade, and the siege of Genoa, and all
that he had seen and done. But whenever he
faltered for a word, my uncle always had it ready
for him, and it was hard to say which knew most
about the business.
“No, I read little or nothing,” said he, when
my father marvelled where he got his knowledge.
“The fact is that I can hardly pick up a print
without seeing some allusion to myself: “Sir C.
82


BUCK TREGELLIS
T. does this, or ‘Sir C. T. says the other, so I
take them no longer. But if a man is in my
position all knowledge comes to him. The Duke
of York tells me of the Army in the morning,
and Lord Spencer chats with me of the Navy in
the afternoon, and Dundas whispers me what is
going forward in the Cabinet, so that I have lit-
tle need of the Times or the Morning Chronicle.”
This set him talking of the great world of
London, telling my father about the men who
were his masters at the Admiralty, and my
mother about the beauties of the town, and the
great ladies at Almack's, but all in the same light,
fanciful way, so that one never knew whether
to laugh or to take him gravely. I think it
flattered him to see the way in which we all
three hung upon his words. Of some he thought
highly and of some lowly, but he made no secret
that the highest of all, and the one against
whom all others should be measured, was Sir
Charles Tregellis himself.
“As to the King,” said he, “of course, I am
l'ami de famille there; and even with you I can
scarce speak freely, as my relations are confiden-
tial.”
“God bless him and keep him from ill!”
cried my father.
“It is pleasant to hear you say so,” said my
uncle. “One has to come into the country to
83


RODNEY STONE
hear honest loyalty, for a sneer and a jibe are
more the fashions in town. The King is grate-
ful to me for the interest which I have ever
shown in his son. He likes to think that the
Prince has a man of taste in his circle.”
“And the Prince 2" asked my mother. “Is
he well-favoured?”
“He is a fine figure of a man. At a distance
he has been mistaken for me. And he has some
taste in dress, though he gets slovenly if I am
too long away from him. I warrant you that I
find a crease in his coat to-morrow.”
We were all seated round the fire by this time,
for the evening had turned chilly. The lamp
was lighted, and so also was my father's pipe.
“I suppose,” said he, “that this is your first
visit to Friar's Oak 4 "
My uncle's face turned suddenly very grave
and stern.
“It is my first visit for many years,” said he.
“I was but one-and-twenty years of age when
last I came here. I am not likely to forget it.”
I knew that he spoke of his visit to Cliffe
Royal at the time of the murder, and I saw by
her face that my mother knew it also. My
father, however, had either never heard of it, or
had forgotten the circumstance.
“Was it at the inn you stayed ?” he asked.
“I stayed with the unfortunate Lord Avon.
84


BUCK TREGELLIS
It was the occasion when he was accused of
slaying his younger brother and fled from the
country.”
We all fell silent, and my uncle leaned his
chin upon his hand, looking thoughtfully into the
fire. If I do but close my eyes now, I can see
the light upon his proud, handsome face, and see
also my dear father, concerned at having touched
upon so terrible a memory, shooting little slant-
ing glances at him betwixt the puffs of his pipe.
“I dare say that it has happened with you,
sir,” said my uncle at last, “that you have lost
some dear messmate, in battle or wreck, and
that you have put him out of your mind in the
routine of your daily life, until suddenly some
word or some scene brings him back to your
memory, and you find your sorrow as raw as
upon the first day of your loss.”
My father nodded.
“So it is with me to-night. I never formed a
close friendship with a man—I say nothing of
women—save only the once. That was with
Lord Avon. We were of an age, he a few
years perhaps my senior, but our tastes, our
judgments, and our characters were alike, save
only that he had in him a touch of pride such as
I have never known in any other man. Putting
aside the little foibles of a rich young man of
fashion, les indescrétions d'une jeunesse dorée, I
85


RODNEY STONE
could have sworn that he was as good a man as
I have ever known.”
“How came he, then, to such a crime?”
asked my father.
My uncle shook his head.
“Many a time have I asked myself that ques-
tion, and it comes home to me more to-night
than ever.”
All the jauntiness had gone out of his man-
ner, and he had turned suddenly into a sad and
SCITIOUIS IN1811.
“Was it certain that he did it, Charles 2 ”
asked my mother.
My uncle shrugged his shoulders.
“I wish I could think it were not so. I
have thought sometimes that it was this very
pride, turning suddenly to madness, which drove
him to it. You have heard how he returned the
money which we had lost?”
“Nay, I have heard nothing of it,” my father
answered.
“It is a very old story now, though we have
not yet found an end to it. We had played
for two days, the four of us: Lord Avon, his
brother Captain Barrington, Sir Lothian Hume,
and myself. Of the Captain I knew little, save
that he was not of the best repute, and was deep
in the hands of the Jews. Sir Lothian has made
an evil name for himself since—'tis the same Sir
86


BUCK TREGELLIS
Lothian who shot Lord Carton in the affair at
Chalk Farm—but in those days there was noth-
ing against him. The oldest of us was but
twenty-four, and we gamed on, as I say, until
the Captain had cleared the board. We were
all hit, but our host far the hardest.
“That night—I tell you now what it would
be a bitter thing for me to tell in a court of law
—I was restless and sleepless, as often happens
when a man has kept awake over long. My
mind would dwell upon the fall of the cards, and
I was tossing and turning in my bed, when sud-
denly a cry fell upon my ears, and then a second
louder one, coming from the direction of Cap-
tain Barrington's room. Five minutes later I
heard steps passing down the passage, and, with-
out striking a light, I opened my door and
peeped out, thinking that some one was taken
unwell. There was Lord Avon walking tow-
ards me. In one hand he held a guttering can-
dle and in the other a brown bag, which chinked
as he moved. His face was all drawn and dis-
torted — so much so that my question was
frozen upon my lips. Before I could utter it
he turned into his chamber and softly closed
the door.
“Next morning I was awakened by finding
him at my bedside.
“‘Charles, said he, ‘I cannot abide to think
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RODNEY STONE
that you should have lost this money in my
house. You will find it here upon your table.’
“It was in vain that I laughed at his squeam-
ishness, telling him that I should most certainly
have claimed my money had I won, so that it
would be strange indeed if I were not permitted
to pay it when I lost.
“Neither I nor my brother will touch it,'
said he. ‘There it lies, and you may do what
you like about it.’
“He would listen to no argument, but dashed
out of the room like a madman. But perhaps
these details are familiar to you, and God knows
they are painful to me to tell.”
My father was sitting with staring eyes, and
his forgotten pipe reeking in his hand.
“Pray let us hear the end of it, sir,” he
cried.
“Well, then, I had finished my toilet in an
hour or so—for I was less exigeant in those days
than now—and I met Sir Lothian Hume at
breakfast. His experience had been the same as
my own, and he was eager to see Captain Bar-
rington, and to ascertain why he had directed his
brother to return the money to us. We were
talking the matter over when suddenly I raised
my eyes to the corner of the ceiling, and I saw—
I saw—”
My uncle had turned quite pale with the
88


BUCK TREGELLIS
vividness of the memory, and he passed his hand
over his eyes.
“It was crimson,” said he, with a shudder—
“crimson with black cracks, and from every crack
—but I will give you dreams, sister Mary. Suf-
fice it that we rushed up the stair which led
direct to the Captain's room, and there we found
him lying with the bone gleaming white through
his throat. A hunting-knife lay in the room—
and the knife was Lord Avon's. A lace ruffle
was found in the dead man's grasp—and the
ruffle was Lord Avon's. Some papers were found
charred in the grate—and the papers were Lord
Avon's. Oh, my poor friend, in what moment
of madness did you come to do such a deed?”
The light had gone out of my uncle's eyes and
the extravagance from his manner. His speech
was clear and plain, with none of those strange
London ways which had so amazed me. Here
was a second uncle, a man of heart and a man of
brains, and I liked him better than the first.
“And what said Lord Avon?” cried my
father.
“He said nothing. He went about like one
who walks in his sleep, with horror-stricken eyes.
None dared arrest him until there should be due
inquiry, but when the coroner's court brought
wilful murder against him, the constables came
for him in full cry. But they found him fled.
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RODNEY STONE
There was a rumour that he had been seen in
Westminster in the next week, and then that
he had escaped for America, but nothing more is
known. It will be a bright day for Sir Lothian
Hume when they can prove him dead, for he is
next of kin, and till then he can touch neither
title nor estate.”
The telling of this grim story had cast a chill
upon all of us. My uncle held out his hands
towards the blaze, and I noticed that they were
as white as the ruffles which fringed them.
“I know not how things are at Cliffe Royal
now,” said he, thoughtfully. “It was not a
cheery house, even before this shadow fell upon
it. A fitter stage was never set forth for such a
tragedy. But seventeen years have passed, and
perhaps even that horrible ceiling—”
“It still bears the stain,” said I.
I know not which of the three was the more
astonished, for my mother had not heard of my
adventures of the night. They never took their
wondering eyes off me as I told my story, and
my heart swelled with pride when my uncle said
that we had carried ourselves well, and that he
did not think that many of our age would have
stood it as stoutly.
“But as to this ghost, it must have been the
creature of your own minds,” said he. “Imagi-
nation plays us strange tricks, and though I have
90


BUCK TREGELLIS
as steady a nerve as a man might wish, I cannot
answer for what I might see if I were to stand
under that blood-stained ceiling at midnight.”
“Uncle,” said I, “I saw a figure as plainly as
I see that fire, and I heard the steps as clearly as
I hear the crackle of the fagots. Besides, we
could not both be deceived.”
“There is truth in that,” said he, thoughtfully.
“You saw no features, you say?”
“It was too dark.”
“But only a figure?”
“The dark outline of one.”
“And it retreated up the stairs?”
“Yes.”
“And vanished into the wall?”
“Yes.”
“What part of the wall?” cried a voice from
behind us.
My mother screamed, and down came my
father's pipe on to the hearthrug. I had sprung
round with a catch of my breath, and there was
the valet, Ambrose, his body in the shadow of
the doorway, his dark face protruded into the
light, and two burning eyes fixed upon mine.
“What the deuce is the meaning of this, sir?”
cried my uncle.
It was strange to see the gleam and passion
fade out of the man's face, and the demure mask
of the valet replace it. His eyes still smoul-
7 91


RODNEY STONE
dered, but his features regained their prim com-
posure in an instant.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Charles,” said he. “I
had come in to ask you if you had any orders for
me, and I did not like to interrupt the young
gentleman's story. I am afraid that I have been
somewhat carried away by it.”
“I never knew you forget yourself before,”
said my uncle.
“You will, I am sure, forgive me, Sir Charles,
if you will call to mind the relation in which I
stood to Lord Avon.” He spoke with some dig-
nity of manner, and with a bow he left the room.
“We must make some little allowance,” said
my uncle, with a sudden return to his jaunty
manner. “When a man can brew a dish of
chocolate, or tie a cravat, as Ambrose does, he
may claim consideration. The fact is that the
poor fellow was valet to Lord Avon, that he was
at Cliffe Royal upon the fatal night of which I
have spoken, and that he is most devoted to his
old master. But my talk has been somewhat
triste, sister Mary, and now we shall return, if
you please, to the dresses of the Countess Lieven,
and the gossip of St. James.”
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CHAPTER VI
ON THE THRESHOLD
MY father sent me to bed early that night,
though I was very eager to stay up, for every
word which this man said held my attention.
His face, his manner, the large waves and sweeps
of his white hands, his easy air of superiority, his
fantastic fashion of talk, all filled me with inter-
est and wonder. But, as I afterwards learned,
their conversation was to be about myself and
my own prospects, so I was despatched to my
room, whence far into the night I could hear the
deep growl of my father and the rich tones of
my uncle, with an occasional gentle murmur from
my mother, as they talked in the room beneath.
I had dropped asleep at last, when I was
awakened suddenly by something wet being
pressed against my face, and by two warm arms
which were cast round me. My mother's cheek
was against my own, and I could hear the click
of her sobs, and feel her quiver and shake in the
darkness. A faint light stole through the lat-
ticed window, and I could dimly see that she
was in white, with her black hair loose upon her
shoulders.
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ON THE THRESHOLD
proud it will make us all when we hear of you
in the company of Charles's grand friends. But
you will promise me not to gamble, Roddy?
You heard to-night of the dreadful things which
come from it.”
“I promise you, mother.”
“And you will be careful of wine, Roddy?
You are young and unused to it.”
“Yes, mother.”
“And play-actresses also, Roddy. And you
will not cast your underclothing until June is in.
Young Master Overton came by his death
through it. Think well of your dress, Roddy,
so as to do your uncle credit, for it is the thing
for which he is himself most famed. You have
but to do what he will direct. But if there is a
time when you are not meeting grand people,
you can wear out your country things, for your
brown coat is as good as new, and the blue one,
if it were ironed and relined, would take you
through the summer. I have put out your Sun-
day clothes with the nankeen vest, since you are
to see the Prince to-morrow, and you will wear
your brown silk stockings and buckle shoes. Be
guarded in crossing the London streets, for I am
told that the hackney coaches are past all imag-
ining. Fold your clothes when you go to bed,
Roddy, and do not forget your evening prayers,
for, oh, my dear boy, the days of temptation are
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RODNEY STONE
at hand, when I will no longer be with you to
help you.”
So with advice and guidance both for this
world and the next did my mother, with her soft,
warm arms around me, prepare me for the great
step which lay before me.
My uncle did not appear at breakfast in the
morning, but Ambrose brewed him a dish of
chocolate and took it to his room. When at
last, about midday, he did descend, he was so
fine with his curled hair, his shining teeth, his
quizzing glass, his snow-white ruffles, and his
laughing eyes, that I could not take my gaze
from him.
“Well, nephew,” he cried, “what do you
think of the prospect of coming to town with
me?”
“I thank you, sir, for the kind interest which
you take in me,” said I.
“But you must be a credit to me. My
nephew must be of the best if he is to be in
keeping with the rest of me.”
“You'll find him a chip of good wood, sir,”
said my father.
“We must make him a polished chip before
we have done with him. Your aim, my dear
nephew, must always be to be in bon ton. It is
not a case of wealth, you understand. Mere
riches cannot do it. Golden Price has forty
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ON THE THRESHOLD
thousand a year, but his clothes are disastrous.
I assure you that I saw him come down St.
James's Street the other day, and I was so
shocked at his appearance that I had to step
into Vernet's for a glass of orange brandy. No,
it is a question of natural taste, and of following
the advice and example of those who are more
experienced than yourself.”
“I fear, Charles, that Rodney's wardrobe is
country-made,” said my mother.
“We shall soon set that right when we get to
town. We shall see what Stultz or Weston can
do for him,” my uncle answered. “We must
keep him quiet until he has some clothes to
wear.”
This slight upon my best Sunday suit brought
a flush to my mother's cheeks, which my uncle
instantly observed, for he was quick in noticing
trifles.
“The clothes are very well for Friar's Oak,
sister Mary,” said he, “And yet you can un-
derstand that they might seem rococo in the
Mall. If you leave him in my hands I shall see
to the matter.”
“On how much, sir,” asked my father, “can a
young man dress in town?”
“With prudence and reasonable care, a young
man of fashion can dress upon eight hundred a
year,” my uncle answered.
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RODNEY STONE
I saw my poor father's face grow longer.
“I fear, sir, that Roddy must keep his coun-
try clothes,” said he, “Even with my prize-
money **
“Tut, sir!” cried my uncle. “I already owe
Weston something over a thousand, so how can
a few odd hundreds affect it? If my nephew
comes with me, my nephew is my care. The
point is settled, and I must refuse to argue
upon it.” He waved his white hands as if to
brush aside all opposition.
My parents tried to thank him, but he cut
them short.
“By the way, now that I am in Friar's Oak,
there is another small piece of business which I
have to perform,” said he. “I believe that there
is a fighting-man named Harrison here, who at
one time might have held the championship.
In those days poor Avon and I were his princi-
pal backers. I should like to have a word with
him.”
You may think how proud I was to walk
down the village street with my magnificent
relative, and to note out of the corner of my eye
how the folk came to the doors and windows to
see us pass. Champion Harrison was standing
outside the smithy, and he pulled his cap off
when he saw my uncle.
“God bless me, sir! Who'd ha’ thought of
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ON THE THRESHOLD
seein’ you at Friar's Oak? Why, Sir Charles,
it brings old memories back to look at your face
again.”
“Glad to see you looking so fit, Harrison,”
said my uncle, running his eyes over him.
“Why, with a week's training you would be as
good a man as ever. I don't suppose you scale
more than thirteen and a half?”
“Thirteen ten, Sir Charles. I'm in my forti-
eth year, but I am sound in wind and limb, and
if my old woman would have let me off my
promise, I'd ha’ had a try with some of these
young ones before now. I hear that they've got
some amazin' good stuff up from Bristol of late.”
“Yes, the Bristol yellowman has been the
winning colour of late. How d'ye do, Mrs.
Harrison? I don't suppose you remember me?”
She had come out from the house, and I no-
ticed that her worn face—on which some past
terror seemed to have left its shadow—hardened
into stern lines as she looked at my uncle.
“I remember you too well, Sir Charles Tre-
gellis,” said she. “I trust that you have not
come here to-day to try to draw my husband
back into the ways that he has forsaken.”
“That's the way with her, Sir Charles,” said
Harrison, resting his great hand upon the wom-
an’s shoulder. “She's got my promise, and
she holds me to it! There was never a better
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RODNEY STONE
or more hard-working wife, but she ain't what
you'd call a patron of sport, and that's a fact.”
“Sport!” cried the woman, bitterly. “A fine
sport for you, Sir Charles, with your pleasant
twenty-mile drive into the country and your
luncheon-basket and your wines, and so merrily
back to London in the cool of the evening, with
a well-fought battle to talk over. Think of the
sport that it was to me to sit through the long
hours, listening for the wheels of the chaise
which would bring my man back to me. Some-
times he could walk in, and sometimes he was
led in, and sometimes he was carried in, and it
was only by his clothes that I could know him *>
“Come, wifie,” said Harrison, patting her on
the shoulder. “I’ve been cut up in my time,
but never as bad as that.”
“And then to live for weeks afterwards with
the fear that every knock at the door may be to
tell us that the other is dead, and that my man
may have to stand in the dock and take his trial
for murder.”
“No, she hasn't got a sportin drop in her
veins,” said Harrison. “She'd never make a
patron, never ! It's Black Baruk's business that
did it, when we thought he'd napped it once too
often. Well, she has my promise, and I'll never
sling my hat over the ropes unless she gives me
leave.”
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ON THE THRESHOLD
“You'll keep your hat on your head like an
honest, God-fearing man, John,” said his wife,
turning back into the house.
“I wouldn't for the world say anything to
make you change your resolutions,” said my
uncle. “At the same time, if you had wished to
take a turn at the old sport, I had a good thing
to put in your way.”
“Well, it's no use, sir,” said Harrison, “but I’d
be glad to hear about it all the same.”
“They have a very good bit of stuff at thirteen
stone down Gloucester way. Wilson is his name,
and they call him Crab on account of his style.”
Harrison shook his head. “Never heard of
him, sir.”
“Very likely not, for he has never shown in
the P.R. But they think great things of him
in the West, and he can hold his own with either
of the Belchers with the mufflers.”
“Sparrin' ain't fightin’,” said the smith.
“I am told that he had the best of it in a by-
battle with Noah James, of Cheshire.”
“There's no gamer man on the list, sir, than
Noah James, the guardsman,” said Harrison.
“I saw him myself fight fifty rounds after his
jaw had been cracked in three places. If Wilson
could beat him, Wilson will go far.”
“So they think in the West, and they mean
to spring him on the London talent. Sir Lothian
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RODNEY STONE
Hume is his patron, and to make a long story
short, he lays me odds that I won't find a young
one of his weight to meet him. I told him that
I had not heard of any good young ones, but
that I had an old one who had not put his foot
into a ring for many years, who would make his
man wish he had never come to London.
“‘Young or old, under twenty or over thirty-
five, you may bring whom you will at the weight,
and I shall lay two to one on Wilson, said he.
I took him in thousands, and here I am.”
“It won't do, Sir Charles,” said the smith,
shaking his head. “There's nothing would
please me better, but you heard for yourself.”
“Well, if you won't fight, Harrison, I must
try to get some promising colt. I'd be glad of
your advice in the matter. By the way, I take
the chair at a supper of the Fancy at the Waggon
and Horses in St. Martin's Lane next Friday. I
should be very glad if you will make one of my
guests. Halloa, who's this?” Up flew his glass
to his eye.
Boy Jim had come out from the forge with his
hammer in his hand. He had, I remember, a
grey flannel shirt, which was open at the neck
and turned up at the sleeves. My uncle ran his
eyes over the fine lines of his magnificent figure
with the glance of a connoisseur.
“That's my nephew, Sir Charles.”
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ON THE THRESHOLD
“Is he living with you?”
“His parents are dead.”
“Has he ever been in London ?”
“No, Sir Charles. He's been with me here
since he was as high as that hammer.”
My uncle turned to Boy Jim.
“I hear that you have never been in London,”
said he, “Your uncle is coming up to a supper
which I am giving to the Fancy next Friday.
Would you care to make one of us?”
Boy Jim's dark eyes sparkled with pleasure.
“I should be glad to come, sir.”
“No, no, Jim,” cried the smith, abruptly.
“I’m sorry to gainsay you, lad, but there are
reasons why I had rather you stayed down here
with your aunt.”
“Tut, Harrison, let the lad come!” cried my
uncle.
“No, no, Sir Charles. It's dangerous com-
pany for a lad of his mettle. There's plenty for
him to do when I'm away.”
Poor Jim turned away with a clouded brow
and strode into the smithy again. For my part,
I slipped after him to try to console him, and to
tell him all the wonderful changes which had
come so suddenly into my life. But I had not
got half through my story, and Jim, like the
good fellow that he was, had just begun to forget
his own troubles in his delight at my good fort-
103


ON THE THRESHOLD
it complete, who should drive past just as we
cleared the village but Miss Hinton, the play-
actress, the pony and phaëton the same as when
first I saw her, but she herself another woman;
and I thought to myself that if Boy Jim had
done nothing but that one thing, he need not
think that his youth had been wasted in the
country. She was driving to see him, I have no
doubt, for they were closer than ever, and she
never looked up nor saw the hand that I waved
to her. So as we took the curve of the road the
little village vanished, and there in the dip of the
Downs, past the spires of Patcham and of Pres-
ton, lay the broad blue sea and the grey houses
of Brighton, with the strange Eastern domes and
minarets of the Prince's Pavilion shooting out
from the centre of it.
To every traveller it was a sight of beauty, but
to me it was the world—the great wide free
world—and my heart thrilled and fluttered as the
young bird's may when it first hears the whirr of
its own flight, and skims along with the blue
heaven above it and the green fields beneath.
The day may come when it may look back re-
gretfully to the snug nest in the thornbush, but
what does it reck of that when spring is in the
air and youth in its blood, and the old hawk of
trouble has not yet darkened the sunshine with
the ill-boding shadow of its wings?
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CHAPTER VII
THE HOPE OF ENGLAND
MY uncle drove for some time in silence, but I
was conscious that his eye was always coming
round to me, and I had an uneasy conviction
that he was already beginning to ask himself
whether he could make anything of me, or
whether he had been betrayed into an indiscre-
tion when he had allowed his sister to persuade
him to show her son something of the grand
world in which he lived.
“You sing, don't you, nephew’ ” he asked,
suddenly.
“Yes, sir, a little.”
“A baritone, I should fancy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your mother tells me that you play the
fiddle. These things will be of service to you
with the Prince. Music runs in his family. Your
education has been what you could get at a vil-
lage school. Well, you are not examined in
Greek roots in polite society, which is lucky for
some of us. It is as well just to have a tag or
two of Horace or Virgil: ‘sub tegmine fagi, or
‘habet foenum in cornu, which gives a flavour to
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THE HOPE OF ENGLAND
one's conversation like the touch of garlic in a
salad. It is not bon ton to be learned, but it is
a graceful thing to indicate that you have forgot-
ten a good deal. Can you write verse?”
“I fear not, sir.”
“A small book of rhymes may be had for half
a crown. Vers de Société are a great assistance
to a young man. If you have the ladies on your
side, it does not matter whom you have against
you. You must learn to open a door, to enter a
room, to present a snuff-box, raising the lid with
the forefinger of the hand in which you hold it.
You must acquire the bow for a man, with its
necessary touch of dignity, and that for a lady,
which cannot be too humble, and should still
contain the least suspicion of abandon. You
must cultivate a manner with women which shall
be deprecating and yet audacious. Have you
any eccentricity?”
It made me laugh, the easy way in which he
asked the question, as if it were a most natural
thing to possess.
“You have a pleasant, catching laugh, at all
events,” said he, “But an eccentricity is very
bon ton at present, and if you feel any leaning
towards one, I should certainly advise you to let
it run its course. Petersham would have re-
mained a mere peer all his life had it not come
out that he had a snuff-box for every day in the
8 107


RODNEY STONE
year, and that he had caught cold through a mis-
take of his valet, who sent him out on a bitter
winter day with a thin Sèvres china box instead
of a thick tortoise-shell. That brought him out
of the ruck, you see, and people remember him.
Even some small characteristic, such as having
an apricot tart on your sideboard all the year
round, or putting your candle out at night by
stuffing it under your pillow, serves to separate
you from your neighbour. In my own case, it
is my precise judgment upon matter of dress and
decorum which has placed me where I am. I do
not profess to follow a law. I set one. For ex-
ample, I am taking you to-day to see the Prince
in a nankeen vest. What do you think will be
the consequence of that?”
My fears told me that it might be my own
very great discomfiture, but I did not say so.
“Why, the night coach will carry the news to
London. It will be in Brookes's and White's to-
morrow morning. Within a week St. James's
Street and the Mall will be full of nankeen waist-
coats. A most painful incident happened to me
once. My cravat came undone in the street,
and I actually walked from Carlton House to
Watier's in Bruton Street with the two ends
hanging loose. Do you suppose it shook my po-
sition? The same evening there were dozens of
young bloods walking the streets of London with
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THE HOPE OF ENGLAND
their cravats loose. If I had not rearranged
mine there would not be one tied in the whole
kingdom now, and a great art would have been
prematurely lost. You have not yet began to
practice it?”
I confessed that I had not.
“You should begin now in your youth. I
will myself teach you the coup d'archet. By us-
ing a few hours in each day, which would other-
wise be wasted, you may hope to have excellent
cravats in middle life. The whole knack lies in
pointing your chin to the sky, and then arrang-
ing your folds by the gradual descent of your
lower jaw.”
When my uncle spoke like this there was al-
ways that dancing, mischievous light in his dark
blue eyes, which showed me that this humour of
his was a conscious eccentricity, depending, as I
believe, upon a natural fastidiousness of taste,
but wilfully driven to grotesque lengths for the
very reason which made him recommend me also
to develop some peculiarity of my own. When
I thought of the way in which he had spoken of
his unhappy friend, Lord Avon, upon the even-
ing before, and of the emotion which he showed
as he told the horrible story, I was glad to think
that there was the heart of a man there, however
much it might please him to conceal it.
And, as it happened, I was very soon to have
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RODNEY STONE
another peep at it, for a most unexpected event
befell us as we drew up in front of the Crown
Hotel. A swarm of ostlers and grooms had
rushed out to us, and my uncle, throwing down
the reins, gathered Fidelio on his cushion from
under the seat.
“Ambrose,” he cried, “you may take Fidelio.”
But there came no answer. The seat behind
was unoccupied. Ambrose was gone.
We could hardly believe our eyes when we
alighted and found that it was really so. He had
most certainly taken his seat there at Friar's Oak,
and from there on we had come without a break
as fast as the mares could travel. Whither, then,
could he have vanished to ?
“He’s fallen off in a fit!” cried my uncle.
“I'd drive back, but the Prince is expecting us.
Where's the landlord? Here, Coppinger, send
your best man back to Friar's Oak as fast as his
horse can go, to find news of my valet, Ambrose.
See that no pains be spared. Now, nephew, we
shall lunch, and then go up to the Pavilion.”
My uncle was much disturbed by the strange
loss of his valet, the more so as it was his custom
to go through a whole series of washings and
changings after even the shortest journey. For
my own part, mindful of my mother's advice, I
carefully brushed the dust from my clothes and
made myself as neat as possible. My heart was
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THE HOPE OF ENGLAND
down in the soles of my little silver-buckled
shoes now that I had the immediate prospect of
meeting so great and terrible a person as the
Prince of Wales. I had seen his flaring yellow
barouche flying through Friar's Oak many a
time, and had halloaed and waved my hat with
the others as it passed, but never in my wildest
dreams had it entered my head that I should
ever be called upon to look him in the face and
answer his questions. My mother had taught
me to regard him with reverence, as one of those
whom God had placed to rule over us; but my
uncle smiled when I told him of her teaching.
“You are old enough to see things as they are,
nephew,” said he, “and your knowledge of them
is the badge that you are in that inner circle
where I mean to place you. There is no one
who knows the Prince better than I do, and
there is no one who trusts him less. A stranger
contradiction of qualities was never gathered un-
der one hat. He is a man who is always in a
hurry, and yet has never anything to do. He
fusses about things with which he has no con-
cern, and he neglects every obvious duty. He is
generous to those who have no claim upon him,
but he has ruined his tradesmen by refusing to
pay his just debts. He is affectionate to casual
acquaintances, but he dislikes his father, loathes
his mother, and is not on speaking terms with
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RODNEY STONE
his wife. He claims to be the first gentleman of
England, but the gentlemen of England have re-
sponded by blackballing his friends at their clubs,
and by warning him off from Newmarket under
suspicion of having tampered with a horse. He
spends his days in uttering noble sentiments, and
contradicting them by ignoble actions. He tells
stories of his own doings which are so grotesque
that they can only be explained by the madness
which runs in his blood. And yet, with all this,
he can be courteous, dignified, and kindly upon
occasion, and I have seen an impulsive good-
heartedness in the man which has made me over-
look faults which come mainly from his being
placed in a position which no one upon this earth
was ever less fitted to fill. But this is between
ourselves, nephew; and now you will come with
me and you will form an opinion for yourself.”
It was but a short walk, and yet it took us
some time, for my uncle stalked along with great
dignity, his lace-bordered handkerchief in one
hand, and his cane with the clouded amber head
dangling from the other. Every one that we
met seemed to know him, and their hats flew
from their heads as we passed. He took little
notice of these greetings, save to give a nod to
one, or to slightly raise his forefinger to another.
It chanced, however, that as we turned into the
Pavilion Grounds, we met a magnificent team of
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THE HOPE OF ENGLAND
four coal-black horses, driven by a rough-looking,
middle-aged fellow in an old weather-stained
cape. There was nothing that I could see to
distinguish him from any professional driver,
save that he was chatting very freely with a
dainty little woman who was perched on the box
beside him.
“Halloa, Charlie! Good drive down?” he cried.
My uncle bowed and smiled to the lady.
“Broke it at Friar's Oak,” said he. “I’ve my
light mail phaeton and two new mares—half thor-
ough-bred, half Cleveland bay.”
“What d'you think of my team of blacks?”
asked the other.
“Yes, Sir Charles, what d'you think of them?
Ain't they damnation smart?” cried the little
WOIman.
“Plenty of power. Good horses for the Sus-
sex clay. Too thick about the fetlocks for me.
I like to travel.”
“Travel !” cried the woman, with extraordi-
nary vehemence. “Why, what the—” and she
broke into such language as I had never heard
from a man's lips before. “We'd start with our
swingle-bars touching, and we'd have your din-
ner ordered, cooked, laid, and eaten before you
were there to claim it.”
“By George, yes, Letty is right!” cried the
man. “D'you start to-morrow?”
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RODNEY STONE
“Yes, Jack.”
“Well, I'll make you an offer. Look ye
here, Charlie ' I'll spring my cattle from the
Castle Square at quarter before nine. You can
follow as the clock strikes. I’ve double the
horses and double the weight. If you so much
as see me before we cross Westminster Bridge,
I'll pay you a cool hundred. If not, it's my
money—play or pay. Is it a match?”
“Very good,” said my uncle, and, raising his
hat, he led the way into the grounds. As I fol-
lowed, I saw the woman take the reins, while
the man looked after us, and squirted a jet of
tobacco-juice from between his teeth in coach-
man fashion.
“That's Sir John Lade,” said my uncle, “one
of the richest men and best whips in England.
There isn't a professional on the road that can
handle either his tongue or his ribbons better;
but his wife, Lady Letty, is his match with the
one or the other.”
“It was dreadful to hear her,” said I.
“Oh, it's her eccentricity. We all have them;
and she amuses the Prince. Now, nephew, keep
close at my elbow, and have your eyes open and
your mouth shut.”
Two lines of magnificent red and gold foot-
men who guarded the door bowed deeply as my
uncle and I passed between them, he with his
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THE HOPE OF ENGLAND
head in the air and a manner as if he entered
into his own, whilst I tried to look assured,
though my heart was beating thin and fast.
Within there was a high and large hall, orna-
mented with Eastern decorations, which har-
monized with the domes and minarets of the ex-
terior. A number of people were moving quietly
about, forming into groups and whispering to
each other. One of these, a short, burly, red-
faced man, full of fuss and self-importance, came
hurrying up to my uncle.
“I have de goot news, Sir Charles,” said he,
sinking his voice as one who speaks of weighty
measures. “Es ist vollendet—dat is, I have it at
last thoroughly done.”
“Well, serve it hot,” said my uncle, coldly,
“ and see that the sauces are a little better than
when last I dined at Carlton House.”
“Ah, mine Gott, you tink I talk of de cuisine.
It is de affair of de Prince dat I speak of Dat
is one little vol-au-vent dat is worth one hundred
tousand pound. Ten per cent, and double to be
repaid when de Royal pappa die. Alles ist fer-
tig. Goldshmidt of de Hague have took it up,
and de Dutch public has subscribe de money.”
“God help the Dutch public l” muttered my
uncle, as the fat little man bustled off with his
news to some new-comer. “That's the Prince's
famous cook, nephew. He has not his equal in
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RODNEY STONE
England for a filet sauté aur champignons. He
manages his master's money affairs.”
“The cook ' " I exclaimed, in bewilderment.
“You look surprised, nephew.”
“I should have thought that some respecta-
ble banking firm **
My uncle inclined his lips to my ear.
“No respectable house would touch them,”
he whispered. “Ah, Mellish, is the Prince
within?”
“In the private saloon, Sir Charles,” said the
gentleman addressed.
“Any one with him ?”
“Sheridan and Francis. He said he expected
you.”
“Then we shall go through.”
I followed him through the strangest succes-
sion of rooms, full of curious barbaric splendour
which impressed me as being very rich and won-
derful, though perhaps I should think differently
now. Gold and scarlet in arabesque designs
gleamed upon the walls, with gilt dragons and
monsters writhing along cornices and out of
corners. Look where I would, on panel or ceil-
ing, a score of mirrors flashed back the picture
of the tall, proud, white-faced man, and the
youth who walked so demurely at his elbow.
Finally, a footman opened a door, and we found
ourselves in the Prince's own private apartment.
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THE HOPE OF ENGLAND
Two gentlemen were lounging in a very easy
fashion upon luxurious fauteuils at the further
end of the room, and a third stood between
them, his thick, well-formed legs somewhat
apart and his hands clasped behind him. The
sun was shining in upon them through a side-
window, and I can see the three faces now—one
in the dusk, one in the light, and one cut across
by the shadow. Of those at the sides, I recall
the reddish nose and dark, flashing eyes of the
one, and the hard, austere face of the other, with
the high coat-collars and many-wreathed cravats.
These I took in at a glance, but it was upon the
man in the centre that my gaze was fixed, for
this I knew must be the Prince of Wales.
George was then in his forty-first year, and
with the help of his tailor and his hairdresser, he
might have passed as somewhat less. The sight
of him put me at my ease, for he was a merry-
looking man, handsome too in a portly, full-
blooded way, with laughing eyes and pouting,
sensitive lips. His nose was turned upwards,
which increased the good-humoured effect of his
countenance at the expense of its dignity. His
cheeks were pale and sodden, like those of a man
who lived too well and took too little exer-
cise. He was dressed in a single-breasted black
coat buttoned up, a pair of leather pantaloons
stretched tightly across his broad thighs, pol-
117


RODNEY STONE
ished Hessian boots, and a huge white neck-
cloth.
“Halloa, Tregellis !” he cried, in the cheeriest
fashion, as my uncle crossed the threshold, and
then suddenly the smile faded from his face, and
his eyes gleamed with resentment. “What the
deuce is this?” he shouted, angrily.
A thrill of fear passed through me as I
thought that it was my appearance which had
produced this outburst. But his eyes were gaz-
ing past us, and glancing round we saw that a
man in a brown coat and scratch wig had fol-
lowed so closely at our heels, that the footmen
had let him pass under the impression that he
was of our party. His face was very red, and
the folded blue paper which he carried in his
hand shook and crackled in his excitement.
“Why, it's Vuillamy, the furniture man,”
cried the Prince. “What, am I to be dunned
in my own private room? Where's Mellish?
Where's Townshend? What the deuce is Tom
Tring doing?”
“I wouldn't have intruded, your Royal High-
ness, but I must have the money—or even a
thousand on account would do.”
“Must have it, must you, Vuillamy? That's
a fine word to use. I pay my debts in my own
time, and I'm not to be bullied. Turn him out,
footman I Take him away!”
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THE HOPE OF ENGLAND
“If I don't get it by Monday, I shall be in
your papa's Bench,” wailed the little man, and
as the footman led him out we could hear him,
amidst shouts of laughter, still protesting that he
would wind up in “papa's Bench.”
“That's the very place for a furniture man,”
said the man with the red nose.
“It should be the longest bench in the world,
Sherry,” answered the Prince, “for a good many
of his subjects will want seats on it. Very glad
to see you back, Tregellis, but you must really
be more careful what you bring in upon your
skirts. It was only yesterday that we had an
infernal Dutchman here howling about some
arrears of interest and the deuce knows what.
“My good fellow, said I, “as long as the Com-
mons starve me, I have to starve you, and so
the matter ended.”
“I think, sir, that the Commons would
respond now if the matter were fairly put before
them by Charlie Fox or myself,” said Sheridan.
The Prince burst out against the Commons
with an energy of hatred that one would scarce
expect from that chubby, good-humoured face.
“Why, curse them l” he cried. “After all
their preaching and throwing my father's model
life, as they called it, in my teeth, they had to
pay his debts to the tune of nearly a million,
whilst I can't get a hundred thousand out of
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RODNEY STONE
them. And look at all they've done for my
brothers | York is Commander-in-Chief Clar-
ence is Admiral. What am I? Colonel of a
damned dragoon regiment under the orders of
my own younger brother. It's my mother that's
at the bottom of it all. She always tried to
hold me back. But what's this you've brought,
Tregellis, eh?”
My uncle put his hand on my sleeve and led
me forward.
“This is my sister's son, sir; Rodney Stone
by name,” said he. “He is coming with me to
London, and I thought it right to begin by pre-
senting him to your Royal Highness.”
“Quite right! Quite right!” said the Prince,
with a good-natured smile, patting me in a
friendly way upon the shoulder. “Is your
mother living?”
“Yes, sir,” said I.
“If you are a good son to her you will never
go wrong. And, mark my words, Mr. Rodney
Stone, you should honour the King, love your
country, and uphold the glorious British Consti-
tution.”
When I thought of the energy with which he
had just been cursing the House of Commons, I
could scarce keep from smiling, and I saw Sheri-
dan put his hand up to his lips.
“You have only to do this, to show a regard
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THE HOPE OF ENGLAND
for your word, and to keep out of debt in order
to insure a happy and respected life. What is
your father, Mr. Stone? Royal Navy | Well,
it is a glorious service. I have had a touch of it
myself. Did I ever tell you how we laid aboard
the French sloop of war Minerve—hey, Tre-
gellis?” -
“No, sir,” said my uncle. Sheridan and Fran-
cis exchanged glances behind the Prince's back.
“She was flying her tricolour out there within
sight of my pavilion windows. Never saw such
monstrous impudence in my life! It would take
a man of less mettle than me to stand it. Out
I went in my little cock-boat—you know my
sixty-ton yawl, Charlie?—with two four-pound-
ers on each side, and a six-pounder in the bows.”
“Well, sir! Well, sir! And what then,
sir?” cried Francis, who appeared to be an
irascible, rough-tongued man.
“You will permit me to tell the story in my
own way, Sir Philip,” said the Prince, with
dignity. “I was about to say that our metal
was so light that I give you my word, gentle-
men, that I carried my port broadside in one
coat pocket, and my starboard in the other. Up
we came to the big Frenchman, took her fire,
and scraped the paint off her before we let drive.
But it was no use. By George, gentlemen, our
balls just stuck in her timbers like stones in a
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RODNEY STONE
mud wall. She had her nettings up, but we
scrambled aboard, and at it we went hammer
and anvil. It was a sharp twenty minutes, but
we beat her people down below, made the
hatches fast on them, and towed her into Sea-
ham. Surely you were with us, Sherry?”
“I was in London at the time,” said Sheridan,
gravely.
“You can vouch for it, Francis !”
“I can vouch to having heard your Highness
tell the story.”
“It was a rough little bit of cutlass and pistol
work. But, for my own part, I like the rapier.
It's a gentleman's weapon. You heard of my
bout with the Chevalier d'Eon ? I had him at
my sword-point for forty minutes at Angelo's.
He was one of the best blades in Europe, but I
was a little too supple in the wrist for him. “I
thank God there was a button on your High-
ness's foil, said he, when we had finished our
breather. By the way, you're a bit of a duellist
yourself, Tregellis. How often have you been
out !”
“I used to go when I needed exercise,” said
my uncle, carelessly. “But I have taken to
tennis now instead. A painful incident hap-
pened the last time that I was out, and it sick-
ened me of it.”
“You killed your man
2 ”
122


THE HOPE OF ENGLAND
“No, no, sir, it was worse than that. I had a
coat that Weston has never equalled. To say
that it fitted me is not to express it. It was me
—like the hide on a horse. I’ve had sixty from
him since, but he could never approach it. The
sit of the collar brought tears into my eyes, sir,
when first I saw it; and as to the waist 39
“But the duel, Tregellis !” cried the Prince.
“Well, sir, I wore it at the duel, like the
thoughtless fool that I was. It was Major
Hunter, of the Guards, with whom I had had
a little tracasserie, because I hinted that he
should not come into Brookes's smelling of the
stables. I fired first, and missed. He fired, and
I shrieked in despair. ‘He's hit ! A surgeon I
A surgeon l’ they cried. “A tailor! A tailor!'
said I, for there was a double hole through the
tails of my masterpiece. No, it was past all re-
pair. You may laugh, sir, but I'll never see the
like of it again.”
I had seated myself on a settee in the corner,
upon the Prince's invitation, and very glad I
was to remain quiet and unnoticed, listening to
the talk of these men. It was all in the same
extravagant vein, garnished with many senseless
Oaths; but I observed this difference, that,
whereas my uncle and Sheridan had something
of humour in their exaggeration, Francis tended
always to ill-nature, and the Prince to self-glori-
9 123


RODNEY STONE
fication. Finally, the conversation turned to
music—I am not sure that my uncle did not art-
fully bring it there, and the Prince, hearing from
him of my tastes, would have it that I should
then and there sit down at the wonderful little
piano, all inlaid with mother-of-pearl, which
stood in the corner, and play him the accompa-
niment to his song. It was called, as I remem-
ber, “The Briton Conquers but to Save,” and he
rolled it out in a very fair bass voice, the others
joining in the chorus, and clapping vigorously
when he finished.
“Bravo, Mr. Stone !” said he. “You have
an excellent touch; and I know what I am
talking about when I speak of music. Cramer,
of the Opera, said only the other day that he
had rather hand his bâton to me than to any
amateur in England. Halloa, it's Charlie Fox,
by all that's wonderful!”
He had run forward with much warmth, and
was shaking the hand of a singular-looking per-
son who had just entered the room. The new-
comer was a stout, square-built man, plainly and
almost carelessly dressed, with an uncouth man-
ner and a rolling gait. His age might have
been something over fifty, and his swarthy,
harshly-featured face was already deeply lined
either by his years or by his excesses. I have
never seen a countenance in which the angel and
124


THE HOPE OF ENGLAND
the devil were more obviously wedded. Above,
was the high, broad forehead of the philosopher,
with keen, humorous eyes looking out from
under thick, strong brows. Below, was the
heavy jowl of the sensualist curving in a broad
crease over his cravat. That brow was the brow
of the public Charles Fox, the thinker, the phi-
lanthropist, the man who rallied and led the
Liberal party during the twenty most hazardous
years of its existence. That jaw was the jaw of
the private Charles Fox, the gambler, the liber-
tine, the drunkard. Yet to his sins he never
added the crowning one of hypocrisy. His
vices were as open as his virtues. In some
quaint freak of Nature, two spirits seemed to
have been joined in one body, and the same
frame to contain the best and the worst man of
his age.
“I’ve run down from Chertsey, sir, just to
shake you by the hand, and to make sure that
the Tories have not carried you off.”
“Hang it, Charlie, you know that I sink or
swim with my friends! A Whig I started, and
a Whig I shall remain.”
I thought that I could read upon Fox's dark
face that he was by no means so confident about
the Prince's principles.
“Pitt has been at you, sir, I understand?”
“Yes, confound him ! I hate the sight of
125


RODNEY STONE
that sharp-pointed snout of his, which he wants
to be ever poking into my affairs. He and
Addington have been boggling about the debts
again. Why, look ye, Charlie, if Pitt held me
in contempt he could not behave different.”
I gathered from the smile which flitted over
Sheridan's expressive face that this was exactly
what Pitt did do. But straightway they all
plunged into politics, varied by the drinking of
sweet maraschino, which a footman brought
round upon a salver. The King, the Queen,
the Lords, and the Commons were each in suc-
cession cursed by the Prince, in spite of the ex-
cellent advice which he had given me about the
British Constitution.
“Why, they allow me so little that I can't
look after my own people. There are a dozen
annuities to old servants and the like, and it's all
I can do to scrape the money together to pay
them. However, my”—he pulled himself up
and coughed in a consequential way—“my fi-
nancial agent has arranged for a loan, repayable
upon the King's death. This liqueur isn't good
for either of us, Charlie. We're both getting
monstrous stout.”
“I can't get any exercise for the gout,” said
Fox.
“I am blooded fifty ounces a month, but the
more I take the more I make. You wouldn't
126


THE HOPE OF ENGLAND
think, to look at us, Tregellis, that we could do
what we have done. We've had some days and
nights together, Charlie l’
Fox smiled and shook his head.
“You remember how we posted to New-
market before the races. We took a public
coach, Tregellis, clapped the postillions into the
rumble, and jumped on to their places. Charlie
rode the leader and I the wheeler. One fellow
wouldn't let us through his turnpike, and Charlie
hopped off, and had his coat off in a minute.
The fellow thought he had to do with a fighting
man, and soon cleared the way for us.”
“By the way, sir, speaking of fighting men, I
give a supper to the Fancy at the Waggon and
Horses on Friday next,” said my uncle. “If
you should chance to be in town, they would
think it a great honour if you should condescend
to look in upon us.”
“I’ve not seen a fight since I saw Tom Tyne,
the tailor, kill Earl fourteen years ago. I swore
off then, and you know me as a man of my
word, Tregellis. Of course, I’ve been at the
ringside incog, many a time, but never as the
Prince of Wales.”
“We should be vastly honoured if you would
come incog to our supper, sir.”
“Well, well, Sherry, make a note of it. We'll
be at Carlton House on Friday. The Prince
127


RODNEY STONE
can't come, you know, Tregellis, but you might
reserve a chair for the Earl of Chester.”
“Sir, we shall be proud to see the Earl of
Chester there,” said my uncle.
“By the way, Tregellis,” said Fox, “there's
some rumour about your having a sporting bet
with Sir Lothian Hume. What's the truth of it?”
“Only a small matter of a couple of thous to
a thou, he giving the odds. He has a fancy to
this new Gloucester man, Crab Wilson, and I'm
to find a man to beat him. Anything under
twenty or over thirty-five, at or about thirteen
stone.”
“You take Charlie Fox's advice, then,” cried
the Prince. “When it comes to handicapping a
horse, playing a hand, matching a cock, or pick-
ing a man, he has the best judgment in England.
Now, Charlie, whom have we upon the list who
can beat Crab Wilson, of Gloucester ?”
I was amazed at the interest and knowledge
which all these great people showed about the
ring, for they not only had the deeds of the
principal men of the time—Belcher, Mendoza,
Jackson, or Dutch Sam—at their fingers' ends,
but there was no fighting man so obscure that
they did not know the details of his deeds and
prospects. The old ones and then the young
were discussed—their weight, their gameness,
their hitting power, and their constitution.
128


THE HOPE OF ENGLAND
Who, as he saw Sheridan and Fox eagerly ar-
guing as to whether Caleb Baldwin, the West-
minster costermonger, could hold his own with
Isaac Bittoon, the Jew, would have guessed that
the one was the deepest political philosopher in
Europe, and that the other would be remembered
as the author of the wittiest comedy and of the
finest speech of his generation?
The name of Champion Harrison came very
early into the discussion, and Fox, who had a
high idea of Crab Wilson's powers, was of opinion
that my uncle's only chance lay in the veteran
taking the field again. “He may be slow on his
pins, but he fights with his head, and he hits like
the kick of a horse. When he finished Black
Baruk the man flew across the outer ring as well
as the inner, and fell among the spectators. If
he isn't absolutely stale, Tregellis, he is your best
chance.”
My uncle shrugged his shoulders.
“If poor Avon were here we might do some-
thing with him, for he was Harrison's first patron,
and the man was devoted to him. But his wife
is too strong for me. And now, sir, I must leave
you, for I have had the misfortune to-day to lose
the best valet in England, and I must make in-
quiry for him. I thank your Royal Highness
for your kindness in receiving my nephew in so
gracious a fashion.”
129


RODNEY STONE
“Till Friday, then,” said the Prince, holding
out his hand. “I have to go up to town in any
case, for there is a poor devil of an East India
Company's officer who has written to me in his
distress. If I can raise a few hundreds, I shall
see him and set things right for him. Now, Mr.
Stone, you have your life before you, and I hope
it will be one which your uncle may be proud of
You will honour the King, and show respect for
the Constitution, Mr. Stone. And, hark ye,
you will avoid debt, and bear in mind that your
honour is a sacred thing.”
So I carried away a last impression of his sen-
sual, good-humoured face, his high cravat, and
his broad leather thighs. Again we passed the
strange rooms, the gilded monsters, and the gor-
geous footmen, and it was with relief that I
found myself out in the open air once more,
with the broad blue sea in front of us, and the
fresh evening breeze upon our faces.
130


CHAPTER VIII
THE BRIGHTON ROAD
MY uncle and I were up betimes next morning,
but he was much out of temper, for no news had
been heard of his valet Ambrose. He had in-
deed become like one of those ants of which I
have read, who are so accustomed to be fed by
smaller ants that when they are left to them-
selves they die of hunger. It was only by
the aid of a man whom the landlord procured,
and of Fox's valet, who had been sent ex-
pressly across, that his toilet was at last per-
formed.
“I must win this race, nephew,” said he, when
he had finished breakfast; “I can’t afford to be
beat. Look out of the window and see if the
Lades are there.”
“I see a red four-in-hand in the square, and
there is a crowd round it. Yes, I see the lady
upon the box seat.”
“Is our tandem out?”
“It is at the door.”
“Come, then, and you shall have such a drive
as you never had before.”
He stood at the door pulling on his long brown
131


RODNEY STONE
driving-gauntlets and giving his orders to the
ostlers.
“Every ounce will tell,” said he “We'll leave
that dinner-basket behind. And you can keep
my dog for me, Coppinger. You know him and
understand him. Let him have his warm milk
and curacoa the same as usual. Whoa, my dar-
lings, you'll have your fill of it before you reach
Westminster Bridge.”
“Shall I put in the toilet-case?” asked the
landlord.
I saw the struggle upon my uncle's face, but
he was true to his principles.
“Put it under the seat—the front seat,” said
he “Nephew, you must keep your weight as
far forward as possible. Can you do anything on
a yard of tin? Well, if you can't, we'll leave the
trumpet. Buckle that girth up, Thomas. Have
you greased the hubs as I told you? Well, jump
up, nephew, and we'll see them off.”
Quite a crowd had gathered in the Old Square:
men and women, dark-coated tradesmen, bucks
from the Prince's Court, and officers from Hove,
all in a buzz of excitement; for Sir John Lade
and my uncle were two of the most famous
whips of the time, and a match between them
was a thing to talk of for many a long day.
“The Prince will be sorry to have missed the
start,” said my uncle. “He doesn't show before
132


THE BRIGHTON ROAD
midday. Ah, Jack, good morning ! Your ser-
vant, madam ! It's a fine day for a little bit of
waggoning.”
As our tandem came alongside of the four-in-
hand, with the two bonny bay mares gleaming
like shot-silk in the sunshine, a murmur of ad-
miration rose from the crowd. My uncle, in his
fawn-coloured driving-coat, with all his harness
of the same tint, looked the ideal of a Corinthian
whip; while Sir John Lade, with his many-caped
coat, his white hat, and his rough, weather-beaten
face, might have taken his seat with a line of
professionals upon any ale-house bench without
any one being able to pick him out as one of the
wealthiest landowners in England. It was an
age of eccentricity, but he had carried his pecul-
iarities to a length which surprised even the out-
and-outers by marrying the sweetheart of a fa-
mous highwayman when the gallows had come
between her and her lover. She was perched by
his side, looking very smart in a flowered bonnet
and grey travelling-dress, while in front of them
the four splendid coal-black horses, with a flick-
ering touch of gold upon their powerful, well-
curved quarters, were pawing the dust in their
eagerness to be off.
“It's a hundred that you don't see us before
Westminster with a quarter of an hour's start,”
said Sir John.
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RODNEY STONE
“I'll take you another hundred that we pass
you,” answered my uncle.
“Very good. Time's up. Good-bye!” He
gave a tchk of the tongue, shook his reins, saluted
with his whip, in true coachman's style, and away
he went, taking the curve out of the square in a
workmanlike fashion that fetched a cheer from
the crowd. We heard the dwindling roar of the
wheels upon the cobble-stones until they died
away in the distance.
It seemed one of the longest quarters of an
hour that I had ever known before the first stroke
of nine boomed from the parish clock. For my
part, I was fidgeting in my seat in my impatience,
but my uncle's calm, pale face and large blue
eyes were as tranquil and demure as those of the
most unconcerned spectator. He was keenly on
the alert, however, and it seemed to me that the
stroke of the clock and the thong of his whip fell
together—not in a blow, but in a sharp snap over
the leader, which sent us flying with a jingle and
a rattle upon our fifty miles' journey. I heard a
roar from behind us, saw the gliding lines of
windows with staring faces and waving handker-
chiefs, and then we were off the stones and on to
the good white road which curved away in front
of us, with the sweep of the green downs upon
either side.
I had been provided with shillings that the
134


THE BRIGHTON ROAD
turnpike-gate might not stop us, but my uncle
reined in the mares and took them at a very easy
trot up all the heavy stretch which ends in Clay-
ton Hill. He let them go then, and we flashed
through Friar's Oak and across St. John's Com-
mon without more than catching a glimpse of the
yellow cottage which contained all that I loved
best. Never have I travelled at such a pace, and
never have I felt such a sense of exhilaration
from the rush of keen upland air upon our faces,
and from the sight of those two glorious creatures
stretched to their utmost, with the roar of their
hoofs and the rattle of our wheels as the light
mail phaeton bounded and swayed behind them.
“It's a long four miles uphill from here to
Hand Cross,” said my uncle, as we flew through
Cuckfield. “I must ease them a bit, for I can-
not afford to break the hearts of my cattle.
They have the right blood in them, and they
would gallop until they dropped if I were brute
enough to let them. Stand up on the seat,
nephew, and see if you can get a glimpse of
them.”
I stood up, steadying myself upon my uncle's
shoulder, but though I could see for a mile, or
perhaps a quarter more, there was not a sign of
the four-in-hand.
“If he has sprung his cattle up all these hills
they'll be spent ere they see Croydon,” said he.
135


RODNEY STONE
“They have four to two,” said I.
“J'en suis bien stir. Sir John's black strain
makes a good, honest creature, but not fliers like
these. There lies Cuckfield Place, where the
towers are, yonder. Get your weight right for-
ward on the splashboard now that we are going
uphill, nephew. Look at the action of that
leader: did ever you see anything more easy and
more beautiful ?”
We were taking the hill at a quiet trot, but
even so, we made the carrier, walking in the
shadow of his huge, broad-wheeled, canvas-cov-
ered waggon, stare at us in amazement. Close
to Hand Cross we passed the Royal Brighton
stage, which had left at half-past seven, dragging
heavily up the slope, and its passengers, toiling
along through the dust behind, gave us a cheer
as we whirled by. At Hand Cross we caught a
glimpse of the old landlord, hurrying out with
his gin and his gingerbread; but the dip of the
ground was downwards now, and away we flew
as fast as eight gallant hoofs could take us.
“Do you drive, nephew * *
“Very little, sir.”
“There is no driving on the Brighton Road.”
“How is that, sir?”
“Too good a road, nephew. I have only to
give them their heads, and they will race me
into Westminster. It wasn't always so. When
136


THE BRIGHTON ROAD
I was a very young man one might learn to
handle his twenty yards of tape here as well as
elsewhere. There's not much really good wag-
goning now south of Leicestershire. Show me
a man who can hit 'em and hold 'em on a York-
shire daleside, and that's the man who comes
from the right school.”
We had raced over Crawley Down and into
the broad main street of Crawley village, flying
between two country waggons in a way which
showed me that even now a driver might do
something on the road. With every turn I
peered ahead, looking for our opponents, but my
uncle seemed to concern himself very little about
them, and occupied himself in giving me advice,
mixed up with so many phrases of the craft, that
it was all that I could do to follow him.
“Keep a finger for each, or you will have
your reins clubbed,” said he. “As to the whip,
the less fanning the better if you have willing
cattle; but when you want to put a little life
into a coach, see that you get your thong on to
the one that needs it, and don't let it fly round
after you've hit. I’ve seen a driver warm up the
off-side passenger on the roof behind him every
time he tried to cut his off-side wheeler. I be-
lieve that is their dust over yonder.”
A long stretch of road lay before us, barred
with the shadows of wayside trees. Through
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RODNEY STONE
the green fields a lazy blue river was drawing it-
self slowly along, passing under a bridge in front
of us. Beyond was a young fir plantation, and
over its olive line there rose a white whirl which
drifted swiftly, like a cloud-scud on a breezy
day.
“Yes, yes, it's they !” cried my uncle. “No
one else would travel as fast. Come, nephew,
we're half-way when we cross the mole at Kim-
berham Bridge, and we've done it in two hours
and fourteen minutes. The Prince drove to
Carlton House with a three tandem in four
hours and a half. The first half is the worst
half, and we might cut his time if all goes well.
We should make up between this and Reigate.”
And we flew. The bay mares seemed to
know what that white puff in front of us signi-
fied, and they stretched themselves like grey-
hounds. We passed a phaeton and pair Lon-
don-bound, and we left it behind as if it had
been standing still. Trees, gates, cottages went
dancing by. We heard the folks shouting from
the fields, under the impression that we were a
runaway. Faster and faster yet they raced, the
hoofs rattling like castanets, the yellow manes
flying, the wheels buzzing, and every joint and
rivet creaking and groaning, while the vehicle
swung and swayed until I found myself clutch-
ing to the side-rail. My uncle eased them and
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THE BRIGHTON ROAD
glanced at his watch as we saw the grey tiles
and dingy red houses of Reigate in the hollow
beneath us.
“We did the last six well under twenty min-
utes,” said he. “We’ve time in hand now, and
a little water at the Red Lion will do them no
harm. Red four-in-hand passed, ostler?”
“Just gone, sir.”
“Going hard?”
“Galloping full split, sir! Took the wheel off
a butcher's cart at the corner of the High Street,
and was out o' sight before the butcher's boy
could see what had hurt him.”
Z-2-3-2-ack / went the long thong, and away
we flew once more. It was market day at Red-
hill, and the road was crowded with carts of
produce, droves of bullocks, and farmers' gigs.
It was a sight to see how my uncle threaded his
way amongst them all. Through the market-
place we dashed amidst the shouting of men, the
screaming of women, and the scuttling of poul-
try, and then we were out in the country again,
with the long, steep incline of the Redhill Road
before us. My uncle waved his whip in the air
with a shrill view-halloa.
There was the dust-cloud rolling up the hill in
front of us, and through it we had a shadowy
peep of the backs of our opponents, with a flash
of brass-work and a gleam of scarlet.
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RODNEY STONE
“There's half the game won, nephew. Now
we must pass them. Hark forrard, my beauties!
By George, if Kitty isn't foundered !”
The leader had suddenly gone dead lame. In
an instant we were both out of the phaeton and
on our knees beside her. It was but a stone,
wedged between frog and shoe in the off fore-
foot, but it was a minute or two before we could
wrench it out. When we had regained our
places the Lades were round the curve of the
hill and out of sight.
“Bad luck!” growled my uncle. “But they
can't get away from us!” For the first time he
touched the mares up, for he had but cracked
the whip over their heads before. “If we catch
them in the next few miles we can spare them
for the rest of the way.”
They were beginning to show signs of exhaus-
tion. Their breath came quick and hoarse, and
their beautiful coats were matted with moisture.
At the top of the hill, however, they settled
down into their swing once more.
“Where on earth have they got to?” cried
my uncle. “Can you make them out on the
road, nephew'?”
We could see a long white ribbon of it, all
dotted with carts and waggons coming from
Croydon to Redhill, but there was no sign of the
big red four-in-hand.
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RODNEY STONE
hand was swishing down it as hard as the horses
could gallop.
“Thought so !” cried my uncle. “If he
doesn't brake, why should I? Now, my dar-
lings, one good spurt, and we'll show them the
colour of our tailboard.”
We shot over the brow and flew madly down
the hill with the great red coach roaring and
thundering before us. Already we were in her
dust, so that we could see nothing but the dim
scarlet blur in the heart of it, rocking and rolling,
with its outline hardening at every stride. We
could hear the crack of the whip in front of us,
and the shrill voice of Lady Lade as she screamed
to the horses. My uncle was very quiet, but
when I glanced up at him I saw that his lips
were set and his eyes shining, with just a lit-
tle flush upon each pale cheek. There was no
need to urge on the mares, for they were already
flying at a pace which could neither be stopped
nor controlled. Our leader's head came abreast
of the off hind wheel, then of the off front one—
then for a hundred yards we did not gain an
inch, and then with a spurt the bay leader was
neck to neck with the black wheeler, and our
fore wheel within an inch of their hind one.
“Dusty work!” said my uncle, quietly.
“Fan 'em, Jack l Fan 'em l” shrieked the
lady.
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THE BRIGHTON ROAD
He sprang up and lashed at his horses.
“Look out, Tregellis!” he shouted. “There's
a damnation spill coming for somebody.”
We had got fairly abreast of them now, the
rumps of the horses exactly a-line and the fore
wheels whizzing together. There was not six
inches to spare in the breadth of the road, and
every instant I expected to feel the jar of a lock-
ing wheel. But now, as we came out from the
dust, we could see what was ahead, and my uncle
whistled between his teeth at the sight.
Two hundred yards or so in front of us there
was a bridge, with wooden posts and rails upon
either side. The road narrowed down at the
point, so that it was obvious that the two car-
riages abreast could not possibly get over. One
must give way to the other. Already our
wheels were abreast of their wheelers.
“I lead l” shouted my uncle. “You must
pull them, Ladel”
“Not I l’’ he roared.
“No, by Georgel” shrieked her ladyship.
“Fan 'em, Jack; keep on fanning 'em!”
It seemed to me that we were all going to
eternity together. But my uncle did the only
thing that could have saved us. By a desperate
effort we might just clear the coach before reach-
ing the mouth of the bridge. He sprang up,
and lashed right and left at the mares, who,
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RODNEY STONE
maddened by the unaccustomed pain, hurled
themselves on in a frenzy. Down we thundered
together, all shouting, I believe, at the top of
our voices in the madness of the moment; but
still we were drawing steadily away, and we
were almost clear of the leaders when we flew
on to the bridge. I glanced back at the coach,
and I saw Lady Lade, with her savage little
white teeth clenched together, throw herself
forward and tug with both hands at the off-side
reins.
“Jam them, Jack l” she cried. “Jam the
before they can pass.”
Had she done it an instant sooner we should
have crashed against the wood-work, carried it
away, and been hurled into the deep gully be-
low. As it was, it was not the powerful haunch
of the black leader which caught our wheel, but
the forequarter, which had not weight enough to
turn us from our course. I saw a red wet seam
gape suddenly through the black hair, and next
instant we were flying alone down the road,
whilst the four-in-hand had halted, and Sir John
and his lady were down in the road together
tending to the wounded horse.
“Easy now, my beauties !” cried my uncle,
settling down into his seat again, and looking
back over his shoulder. “I could not have be-
lieved that Sir John Lade would have been
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THE BRIGHTON ROAD
guilty of such a trick as pulling that leader
across. I do not permit a mauvaise plaisanterie
of that sort. He shall hear from me to-
night.”
“It was the lady,” said I.
My uncle's brow cleared, and he began to
laugh.
“It was little Letty, was it?” said he. “I
might have known it. There's a touch of the
late lamented Sixteen-string Jack about the
trick. Well, it is only messages of another kind
that I send to a lady, so we'll just drive on our
way, nephew, and thank our stars that we bring
whole bones over the Thames.”
We stopped at the Greyhound, at Croydon,
where the two good little mares were sponged
and petted and fed, after which, at an easier
pace, we made our way through Norbury and
Streatham. At last the fields grew fewer and
the walls longer. The outlying villas closed up
thicker and thicker, until their shoulders met,
and we were driving between a double line of
houses with garish shops at the corners, and
such a stream of traffic as I had never seen, roar-
ing down the centre. Then suddenly we were
on a broad bridge with a dark coffee-brown river
flowing sulkily beneath it, and bluff-bowed
barges drifting down upon its bosom. To right
and left stretched a broken, irregular line of
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RODNEY STONE
many-coloured houses winding along either bank
as far as I could see.
“That's the House of Parliament, nephew,”
said my uncle, pointing with his whip, “and the
black towers are Westminster Abbey. How do,
your Grace? How do? That's the Duke of
Norfolk—the stout man in blue upon the swish-
tailed mare. Now we are in Whitehall. There's
the Treasury on the left, and the Horse Guards,
and the Admiralty, where the stone dolphins are
carved above the gate.”
I had the idea, which a country-bred lad
brings up with him, that London was merely a
wilderness of houses, but I was astonished now
to see the green slopes and the lovely spring
trees showing between.
“Yes, those are the Privy Gardens,” said my
uncle, “and there is the window out of which
Charles took his last step on to the scaffold.
You wouldn't think the mares had come fifty
miles, would you? See how les petites cheries
step out for the credit of their master. Look at
the barouche, with the sharp-featured man peep-
ing out of the window. That's Pitt, going down
to the House. We are coming into Pall Mall
now, and this great building on the left is Carl-
ton House, the Prince's Palace. There's St.
James's, the big, dingy place with the clock, and
the two red-coated sentries before it. And
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THE BRIGHTON ROAD
here's the famous street of the same name,
nephew, which is the very centre of the world,
and here's Jermyn Street opening out of it, and
finally, here's my own little box, and we are well
under the five hours from Brighton Old Square.”
147


CHAPTER IX
WATIER'S
MY uncle's house in Jermyn Street was quite a
small one—five rooms and an attic. “A man-
cook and a cottage,” he said, “are all that a wise
man requires.” On the other hand, it was fur-
nished with the neatness and taste which be-
longed to his character, so that his most luxu-
rious friends found something in the tiny rooms
which made them discontented with their own
sumptuous mansions. Even the attic, which
had been converted into my bedroom, was the
most perfect little bijou attic that could possibly
be imagined. Beautiful and valuable knick-
knacks filled every corner of every apartment,
and the house had become a perfect miniature
museum which would have delighted a virtuoso.
My uncle explained the presence of all these
pretty things with a shrug of his shoulders and
a wave of his hands. “They are des petites
cadeaua,” said he, “but it would be an indiscre-
tion for me to say more.”
We found a note from Ambrose waiting for
us which increased rather than explained the
mystery of his disappearance.
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WATIER'S
“My dear Sir Charles Tregellis,” it ran, “it
will ever be a subject of regret to me that the
force of circumstances should have compelled me
to leave your service in so abrupt a fashion, but
something occurred during our journey from
Friar's Oak to Brighton which left me without
any possible alternative. I trust, however, that
my absence may prove to be but a temporary
one. The isinglass recipe for the shirt-fronts is
in the strong-box at Drummond's Bank.—Yours
obediently, AMBROSE.”
“Well, I suppose I must fill his place as best
I can,” said my uncle, moodily. “But how on
earth could something have occurred to make
him leave me at a time when we were going full-
trot down hill in my curricle? I shall never
find his match again either for chocolate or
cravats. Je suis desolé/ But now, nephew, we
must send to Weston and have you fitted up.
It is not for a gentleman to go to a shop, but for
the shop to come to the gentleman. Until you
have your clothes you must remain en retraite.”
The measuring was a most solemn and serious
function, though it was nothing to the trying-on
two days later, when my uncle stood by in an
agony of apprehension as each garment was ad-
justed, he and Weston arguing over every seam
and lapel and skirt until I was dizzy with turn-
ing round in front of them. Then, just as I had
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RODNEY STONE
hoped that all was settled, in came young Mr.
Brummell, who promised to be an even greater
exquisite than my uncle, and the whole matter
had to be thrashed out between them. He was
a good-sized man, this Brummell, with a long,
fair face, light brown hair, and slight sandy side-
whiskers. His manner was languid, his voice
drawling, and while he eclipsed my uncle in the
extravagance of his speech, he had not the air of
manliness and decision which underlay all my
kinsman's affectations.
“Why, George,” cried my uncle, “I thought
you were with your regiment.”
“I’ve sent in my papers,” drawled the other.
“I thought it would come to that.”
“Yes. The Tenth was ordered to Manchester,
and they could hardly expect me to go to a place
like that. Besides, I found the major monstrous
rude.”
“How was that?”
“He expected me to know about his absurd
drill, Tregellis, and I had other things to think
of, as you may suppose. I had no difficulty in
taking my right place on parade, for there was a
trooper with a red nose on a flea-bitten grey, and
I had observed that my post was always im-
mediately in front of him. This saved a great
deal of trouble. The other day, however, when
I came on parade, I galloped up one line and
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WATIER'S
down the other, but the deuce a glimpse could I
get of that long nose of his ! Then, just as I
was at my wits' end, I caught sight of him, alone
at one side; so I formed up in front. It seems
he had been put there to keep the ground, and
the major so far forgot himself as to say that I
Knew nothing of my duties.”
My uncle laughed, and Brummell looked me
up and down with his large, intolerant eyes.
“These will do very passably,” said he. “Buff
and blue are always very gentlemanlike. But a
sprigged waistcoat would have been better.”
“I think not,” said my uncle, warmly.
“My dear Tregellis, you are infallible upon a
cravat, but you must allow me the right of my
own judgment upon vests. I like it vastly as it
stands, but a touch of red sprig would give it the
finish that it needs.”
They argued with many examples and analo-
gies for a good ten minutes, revolving round
me at the same time with their heads on one side
and their glasses to their eyes. It was a relief to
me when they at last agreed upon a compromise.
“You must not let anything I have said shake
your faith in Sir Charles's judgment, Mr. Stone,”
said Brummell, very earnestly.
I assured him that I should not.
“If you were my nephew, I should expect
you to follow my taste. But you will cut a very
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RODNEY STONE
good figure as it is. I had a young cousin who
came up to town last year with a recommenda-
tion to my care. But he would take no advice.
At the end of the second week I met him coming
down St. James's Street in a snuff-coloured coat
cut by a country tailor. He bowed to me. Of
course I knew what was due to myself. I looked
all round him, and there was an end to his career
in town. You are from the country, Mr. Stone?”
“From Sussex, sir.”
“Sussex' Why, that is where I send my
washing to. There is an excellent clear-starcher
living near Hayward's Heath. I send my shirts
two at a time, for if you send more it excites the
woman and diverts her attention. I cannot
abide anything but country washing. But I
should be vastly sorry to have to live there.
What can a man find to do?”
“You don't hunt, George?”
“When I do, it's a woman. But surely you
don't go to hounds, Charles?”
“I was out with the Belvoir last winter.”
“The Belvoir ! Did you hear how I smoked
Rutland? The story has been in the clubs this
month past. I bet him that my bag would
weigh more than his. He got three and a half
brace, but I shot his liver-coloured pointer, so he
had to pay. But as to hunting, what amuse-
ment can there be in flying about among a
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WATIER'S
crowd of greasy, galloping farmers? Every man
to his own taste, but Brookes's window by day
and a snug corner of the macao table at Watier's
by night, give me all I want for mind and body.
You heard how I plucked Montague the brewer !”
“I have been out of town.”
“I had eight thousand from him at a sitting.
“I shall drink your beer in future, Mr. Brewer,’
said I. “Every blackguard in London does,’
said he. It was monstrous impolite of him, but
some people cannot lose with grace. Well, I am
going down to Clarges Street to pay Jew King a
little of my interest. Are you bound that way?
Well, good-bye, then I I'll see you and your
young friend at the club or in the Mall, no
doubt,” and he sauntered off upon his way.
“That young man is destined to take my
place,” said my uncle, gravely, when Brummell
had departed. “He is quite young and of no
descent, but he has made his way by his cool ef-
frontery, his natural taste, and his extravagance
of speech. There is no man who can be impolite
in so polished a fashion. He has a half-smile,
and a way of raising his eyebrows, for which he
will be shot one of these mornings. Already his
opinion is quoted in the clubs as a rival to my
own. Well, every man has his day, and when I
am convinced that mine is passed, St. James's
Street shall know me no more, for it is not in
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RODNEY STONE
my nature to be second to any man. But now,
nephew, in that buff and blue suit you may pass
anywhere; so, if you please, we will step into my
vis-à-vis, and I will show you something of the
town.”
How can I describe all that we saw and all
that we did upon that lovely spring day? To
me it was as if I had been wafted to a fairy
world, and my uncle might have been some be-
nevolent enchanter in a high-collared, long-tailed
coat, who was guiding me about in it. He
showed me the West-end streets, with the bright
carriages and the gaily dressed ladies and sombre-
clad men, all crossing and hurrying and recross-
ing like an ants' nest when you turn it over with
a stick. Never had I formed a conception of
such endless banks of houses, and such a cease-
less stream of life flowing between. Then we
passed down the Strand, where the crowd was
thicker than ever, and even penetrated beyond
Temple Bar and into the City, though my uncle
begged me not to mention it, for he would not
wish it to be generally known. There I saw the
Exchange and the Bank and Lloyd's Coffee
House, with the brown-coated, sharp-faced mer-
chants and the hurrying clerks, the huge horses
and the busy draymen. It was a very different
world this from that which we had left in the
West—a world of energy and of strength, where
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WATIER'S
there was no place for the listless and the idle.
Young as I was, I knew that it was here, in the
forest of merchant shipping, in the bales which
swung up to the warehouse windows, in the
loaded waggons which roared over the cobble-
stones, that the power of Britain lay. Here, in
the City of London, was the taproot from which
Empire and wealth and so many other fine leaves
had sprouted. Fashion and speech and manners
may change, but the spirit of enterprise within
that square mile or two of land must not change,
for when it withers all that has grown from it
must wither also.
We lunched at Stephen's, the fashionable inn
in Bond Street, where I saw a line of tilburys
and saddle-horses, which stretched from the door
to the further end of the street. And thence we
went to the Mall in St. James's Park, and thence
to Brookes's, the great Whig club, and thence
again to Watier's, where the men of fashion used
to gamble. Everywhere I met the same sort of
men, with their stiff figures and small waists, all
showing the utmost deference to my uncle, and
for his sake an easy tolerance of me. The talk
was always such as I had already heard at the
Pavilion: talk of politics, talk of the King's
health, talk of the Prince's extravagance, of the
expected renewal of war, of horse-racing, and of
the ring. I saw, too, that eccentricity was, as
11 155


RODNEY STONE
my uncle had told me, the fashion; and if the
folk upon the Continent look upon us even to
this day as being a nation of lunatics, it is no
doubt a tradition handed down from the time
when the only travellers whom they were likely
to see were drawn from the class which I was
now meeting.
It was an age of heroism and of folly. On the
one hand soldiers, sailors, and statesmen of the
quality of Pitt, Nelson, and afterwards Welling-
ton, had been forced to the front by the imminent
menace of Buonaparte. We were great in arms,
and were soon also to be great in literature, for
Scott and Byron were in their day the strongest
forces in Europe. On the other hand, a touch
of madness, real or assumed, was a passport
through doors which were closed to wisdom and
to virtue. The man who could enter a drawing-
room walking upon his hands, the man who had
filed his teeth that he might whistle like a coach-
man, the man who always spoke his thoughts
aloud and so kept his guests in a quiver of ap-
prehension, these were the people who found it
easy to come to the front in London society.
Nor could the heroism and the folly be kept
apart, for there were few who could quite escape
the contagion of the times. In an age when the
Premier was a heavy drinker, the Leader of the
Opposition a libertine, and the Prince of Wales
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RODNEY STONE
them now. He knows more about training
than any man alive, and he has walked ninety
miles in twenty-one hours. You have only to
look at his calves to see that Nature built him
for it. There's another walker there, the man
with a flowered vest standing near the fireplace.
That is Buck Whalley, who walked to Jerusa-
lem in a long blue coat, top-boots, and buck-
skins.”
“Why did he do that, sir?” I asked, in as-
tonishment.
My uncle shrugged his shoulders.
“It was his humour,” said he. “He walked
into society through it, and that was better worth
reaching than Jerusalem. There's Lord Peter-
sham, the man with the beaky nose. He al-
ways rises at six in the evening, and he has
laid down the finest cellar of snuff in Europe.
It was he who ordered his valet to put half a
dozen of sherry by his bed and call him the day
after to-morrow. He's talking to Lord Pan-
mure, who can take his six bottles of claret and
argue with a bishop after it. The lean man with
the weak knees is General Scott, who lives upon
toast and water and has won £200,000 at whist.
He is talking to young Lord Blandford, who gave
£1800 for a Boccaccio the other day. Evening,
Dudley !”
“Evening, Tregellis !” an elderly, vacant-
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WATIER'S
looking man had stopped before us and was
looking me up and down.
“Some young cub Charlie Tregellis has caught
in the country,” he murmured. “He doesn't
look as if he would be much credit to him. Been
out of town, Tregellis?”
“For a few days.”
“Heml” said the man, transferring his sleepy
gaze to my uncle. “He’s looking pretty bad.
He'll be going into the country feet foremost
some of these days if he doesn't pull up !” He
nodded, and passed on.
“You mustn't look so mortified, nephew,”
said my uncle, smiling. “That's old Lord
Dudley, and he has a trick of thinking aloud.
People used to be offended, but they take no
notice of him now. It was only last week,
when he was dining at Lord Elgin's, that he
apologized to the company for the shocking
bad cooking. He thought he was at his own
table, you see. It gives him a place of his
own in society. That's Lord Harewood he
has fastened on to now. Harewood's pecul-
iarity is to mimic the Prince in everything.
One day the Prince hid his queue behind the
collar of his coat, so Harewood cut his off,
thinking that they were going out of fashion.
Here's Lumley, the ugly man. “L’homme laid”
they called him in Paris. The other one is
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RODNEY STONE
Lord Foley—they call him No. 11, on account
of his thin legs.”
“There is Mr. Brummell, sir,” said I.
“Yes, he'll come to us presently. That young
man has certainly a future before him. Do you
observe the way in which he looks round the
room from under his drooping eyelids, as though
it were a condescension that he should have
entered it? Small conceits are intolerable, but
when they are pushed to the uttermost they be-
come respectable. How do, George?”
“Have you heard about Vereker Merton?”
asked Brummell, strolling up with one or two
other exquisites at his heels. “He has run away
with his father's woman-cook, and actually mar-
ried her.”
“What did Lord Merton do?”
“He congratulated him warmly, and confessed
that he had always underrated his intelligence.
He is to live with the young couple, and make
a handsome allowance on condition that the
bride sticks to her old duties. By the way, there
was a rumour that you were about to marry,
Tregellis.”
“I think not,” answered my uncle. “It would
be a mistake to overwhelm one by attentions
which are a pleasure to many.”
“My view, exactly, and very neatly expressed,”
cried Brummell. “Is it fair to break a dozen
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WATIER'S
hearts in order to intoxicate one with rapture?
I'm off to the Continent next week.”
“Bailiffs?” asked one of his companions.
“Too bad, Pierrepoint. No, no; it is pleas-
ure and instruction combined. Besides, it is
necessary to go to Paris for your little things,
and if there is a chance of the war breaking
out again, it would be well to lay in a sup-
ply.”
“Quite right,” said my uncle, who seemed to
have made up his mind to outdo Brummell in
extravagance. “I used to get my sulphur-col-
oured gloves from the Palais Royal. When the
war broke out in ’93 I was cut off from them for
nine years. Had it not been for a lugger which
I specially hired to smuggle them, I might have
been reduced to English tan.”
“The English are excellent at a flat-iron or a
kitchen poker, but anything more delicate is be-
yond them.”
“Our tailors are good,” cried my uncle, “but
our stuffs lack taste and variety. The war has
made us more rococo than ever. It has cut us
off from travel, and there is nothing to match
travel for expanding the mind. Last year, for
example, I came upon some new waistcoating
in the Square of San Marco, at Venice. It was
yellow, with the prettiest little twill of pink run-
ning through it. How could I have seen it had
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RODNEY STONE
I not travelled? I brought it back with me, and
for a time it was all the rage.”
“The Prince took it up.”
“Yes, he usually follows my lead. We dressed
so alike last year that we were frequently mis-
taken for each other. It tells against me, but so
it was. He often complains that things do not
look as well upon him as upon me, but how can
I make the obvious reply? By the way, George,
I did not see you at the Marchioness of Dover's
ball.”
“Yes, I was there, and lingered for a quarter
of an hour or so. I am surprised that you did
not see me. I did not go past the doorway,
however, for undue preference gives rise to jeal-
ousy.”
“I went early,” said my uncle, “for I had
heard that there were to be some tolerable
débutantes. It always pleases me vastly when I
am able to pass a compliment to any of them.
It has happened, but not often, for I keep to my
own standard.”
So they talked, these singular men, and I,
looking from one to the other, could not imagine
how they could help bursting out a-laughing in
each other's faces. But, on the contrary, their
conversation was very grave, and filled out with
many little bows, and opening and shutting of
snuff-boxes, and flickings of laced handkerchiefs.
162


WATIER'S
Quite a crowd had gathered silently around, and
I could see that the talk had been regarded as a
contest between two men who were looked upon
as rival arbiters of fashion. It was finished by
the Marquis of Queensberry passing his arm
through Brummell's and leading him off, while
my uncle threw out his laced cambric shirt-front
and shot his ruffles as if he were well satisfied
with his share in the encounter. It is seven-and-
forty years since I looked upon that circle of
dandies, and where, now, are their dainty little
hats, their wonderful waistcoats, and their boots,
in which one could arrange one's cravat? They
lived strange lives, these men, and they died
strange deaths—some by their own hands, some
as beggars, some in a debtor's gaol, some, like
the most brilliant of them all, in a madhouse in
a foreign land.
“There is the card-room, Rodney,” said my
uncle, as we passed an open door on our way
out. Glancing in, I saw a line of little green
baize tables with small groups of men sitting
round, while at one side was a longer one, from
which there came a continuous murmur of voices.
“You may lose what you like in there, save only
your nerve or your temper,” my uncle continued.
“Ah, Sir Lothian, I trust that the luck was with
you?”
A tall, thin man, with a hard, austere face,
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RODNEY STONE
had stepped out of the open doorway. His
heavily thatched eyebrows covered quick, furtive
grey eyes, and his gaunt features were hollowed
at the cheek and temple like water-grooved flint.
He was dressed entirely in black, and I noticed
that his shoulders swayed a little as if he had
been drinking.
“Lost like the deuce,” he snapped.
“Dice 2 ”
“No, whist.”
“You couldn't get very hard hit over that.”
“Couldn't you?” he snarled. “Play a hun-
dred a trick and a thousand on the rub, losing
steadily for five hours, and see what you think of
it.”
My uncle was evidently struck by the haggard
look upon the other's face.
“I hope it's not very bad,” he said.
“Bad enough. It won't bear talking about.
By the way, Tregellis, have you got your man
for this fight yet?”
“NO.”
“You seem to be hanging in the wind a long
time. It's play or pay, you know. I shall
claim forfeit if you don't come to scratch.”
“If you will name your day I shall produce
my man, Sir Lothian,” said my uncle, coldly.
“This day four weeks, if you like.”
“Very good. The 18th of May.”
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RODNEY STONE
cracked spine,” Sir Lothian answered, and then,
changing his manner suddenly, he laid his hand
upon my uncle's sleeve.
“Come, come, Tregellis, I was his friend as
well as you,” said he. “But we cannot alter the
facts, and it is rather late in the day for us to fall
out over them. Your invitation holds good for
Friday night?”
“Certainly.”
“I shall bring Crab Wilson with me, and
finally arrange the conditions of our little
wager.”
“Very good, Sir Lothian | I shall hope to
see you.”
They bowed, and my uncle stood a little time
looking after him as he made his way amidst the
crowd.
“A good sportsman, nephew,” said he, “A
bold rider, the best pistol-shot in England, but
... a dangerous man l”
166


CHAPTER X
THE MEN OF THE RING
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 Mont-
gomery, Sir Thomas Apreece, the Hon. Berke-
ley 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 prize-fighter for land-
lord. 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 blasé 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
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RODNEY STONE
Garden or the Haymarket often gathered illus-
trious 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
race-horses. 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 land-
lord; “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
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THE MEN OF THE RING
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 genelman-like
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.”
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RODNEY STONE
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-smell-
ing 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.
170


THE MEN OF THE RING
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 1" he cried. “This is
a resurrection. Where in the world did you
come from ?”
“Glad to see you, Jackson,” said my com-
panion. “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, Jack-
son. 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
12 171


RODNEY STONE
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 8"
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 gen-
tleman 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
172


THE MEN OF THE RING
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 un-
cle welcomed him, and led some of the Corin-
thians 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 prize-fighters. “’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 gen-
eral regulator of the whole prize-fighting body,
by whom he was usually alluded to as the Com-
173


RODNEY STONE
mander-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 by the 'and.”
“No, you don't, Joe,” said Jackson, laying his
hand upon Berks's chest, as he tried to push his
way through the crowd. “You’ve got to keep
your place, Joe, or we'll put you where you can
make all the noise you like.”
“Where's that, gov'nor?”
“Into the street, through the window. We're
going to have a peaceful evening, as Jem Belcher
and I will show you if you get up to any of your
Whitechapel games.”
“No 'arm, gov'nor,” grumbled Berks. “I’m
sure I’ve always 'ad the name of bein a very
genelman-like man.”
“So I've always said, Joe Berks, and mind
you prove yourself such. But the supper is ready
for us, and there's the Prince and Lord Sele
going in. Two and two, lads, and don't forget
whose company you are in.”
174


THE MEN OF THE RING
- ~ ------
The supper was laid in a large room, with
Union Jacks and mottoes hung thickly upon the
walls. The tables were arranged in three sides
of a square, my uncle occupying the centre of
the principal one, with the Prince upon his right
and Lord Sele upon his left. By his wise pre-
caution the seats had been allotted beforehand,
so that the gentlemen might be scattered among
the professionals and no risk run of two enemies
finding themselves together, or a man who had
been recently beaten falling into the company of
his conqueror. For my own part, I had Cham-
pion Harrison upon one side of me and a stout,
florid-faced man upon the other, who whispered
to me that he was “Bill Warr, landlord of the
One Tun public-house, of Jermyn Street, and
one of the gamest men upon the list.”
“It's my flesh that's beat me, sir,” said he.
“It creeps over me amazin’ fast. I should fight
at thirteen-eight, and 'ere I am nearly seventeen.
It's the business that does it, what with lollin'
about behind the bar all day, and bein’ afraid to
refuse a wet for fear of offendin a customer.
It's been the ruin of many a good fightin'-man
before me.”
“You should take to my job,” said Harrison.
“I’m a smith by trade, and I’ve not put on half
a stone in fifteen years.”
“Some take to one thing and some to another,
175


RODNEY STONE
but the most of us try to 'ave a bar-parlour of
our own. There's Will Wood, that I beat in
forty rounds in the thick of a snow-storm down
Navestock way, 'e drives a 'ackney. Young
Firby, the ruffian, 'e's a waiter now. Dick
'Umphries sells coals—e was always of a genel-
manly disposition. George Ingleston is a brew-
er's drayman. We all find our own cribs. But
there's one thing you are saved by livin' in the
c untry, and that is 'avin' the young Corinthians
and bloods about town smackin' you eternally in
the face.”
This was the last inconvenience which I should
have expected a famous prize-fighter to be sub-
jected to, but several bull-faced fellows at the
other side of the table nodded their concurrence.
“You're right, Bill,” said one of them.
“There's no one has had more trouble with
them than I have. In they come of an evenin'
into my bar, with the wine in their heads. “Are
you Tom Owen the bruiser?” says one o' them.
“At your service, sir, says I. ‘Take that, then,
says he, and it's a clip on the nose, or a back-
handed slap across the chops as likely as not.
Then they can brag all their lives that they had
hit Tom Owen.”
“D'you draw their cork in return?” asked
Harrison.
“I argey it out with them. I say to them,
176


THE MEN OF THE RING
‘Now, gents, fightin' is my profession, and I
don't fight for love any more than a doctor doc-
tors for love, or a butcher gives away a loin
chop. Put up a small purse, master, and I'll
do you over and proud. But don't expect that
you're goin' to come here and get glutted by a
middle-weight champion for nothing.”
“That's my way too, Tom,” said my burly
neighbour. “If they put down a guinea on the
counter—which they do if they’ave been drinkin'
very eavy—I give them what I think is about a
guinea's worth and take the money.”
“But if they don't?”
“Why, then, it's a common assault, dye see,
against the body of is Majesty's liege, William
Warr, and I as 'em before the beak next morn-
in', and it's a week or twenty shillin's.”
Meanwhile the supper was in full swing—one
of those solid and uncompromising meals which
prevailed in the days of your grandfathers, and
which may explain to some of you why you
never set eyes upon that relative.
Great rounds of beef, saddles of mutton, smok-
ing tongues, veal and ham pies, turkeys and
chickens, and geese, with every variety of vege-
tables, and a succession of fiery cherries and
heavy ales were the main staple of the feast. It
was the same meal and the same cooking as
their Norse or German ancestors might have sat
177


RODNEY STONE
down to fourteen centuries before, and, indeed,
as I looked through the steam of the dishes at
the lines of fierce and rugged faces, and the
mighty shoulders which rounded themselves
over the board, I could have imagined myself at
one of those old-world carousals of which I had
read, where the savage company gnawed the
joints to the bone, and then, with murderous
horse-play, hurled the remains at their prisoners.
Here and there the pale, aquiline features of a
sporting Corinthian recalled rather the Norman
type, but in the main these stolid, heavy-jowled
faces, belonging to men whose whole life was a
battle, were the nearest suggestion which we
have had in modern times of those fierce pirates
and rovers from whose loins we have sprung.
And yet, as I looked carefully from man to
man in the line which faced me, I could see that
the English, although they were ten to one, had
not the game entirely to themselves, but that
other races had shown that they could produce
fighting-men worthy to rank with the best.
There were, it is true, no finer or braver men
in the room than Jackson and Jem Belcher, the
one with his magnificent figure, his small waist
and Herculean shoulders; the other as graceful
as an old Grecian statue, with a head whose
beauty many a sculptor had wished to copy, and
with those long, delicate lines in shoulder and
178


THE MEN OF THE RING
loins and limbs, which gave him the litheness
and activity of a panther. Already, as I looked
at him, it seemed to me that there was a shadow
of tragedy upon his face, a forecast of the day
then but a few months distant when a blow from
a racquet ball darkened the sight of one eye for
ever. Had he stopped there, with his unbeaten
career behind him, then indeed the evening of
his life might have been as glorious as its dawn.
But his proud heart could not permit his title to
be torn from him without a struggle. If even
now you can read how the gallant fellow, unable
with his one eye to judge his distances, fought
for thirty-five minutes against his young and for-
midable opponent, and how, in the bitterness of
defeat, he was heard only to express his sorrow
for a friend who had backed him with all he pos-
sessed, and if you are not touched by the story
there must be something wanting in you which
should go to the making of a man.
But if there were no men at the tables who
could have held their own against Jackson or
Jem Belcher, there were others of a different
race and type who had qualities which made
them dangerous bruisers. A little way down
the room I saw the black face and woolly head
of Bill Richmond, in a purple-and-gold foot-
man's livery—destined to be the predecessor of
Molineaux, Sutton, and all that line of black
179


RODNEY STONE
boxers who have shown that the muscular power
and insensibility to pain which distinguish the
African give him a peculiar advantage in the
sports of the ring. He could boast also of the
higher honour of having been the first born
American to win laurels in the British ring.
There also I saw the keen features of Dan Men-
doza, the Jew, just retired from active work, and
leaving behind him a reputation for elegance and
perfect science which has, to this day, never been
exceeded. The worst fault that the critics could
find with him was that there was a want of
power in his blows—a remark which certainly
could not have been made about his neighbour,
whose long face, curved nose, and dark, flashing
eyes proclaimed him as a member of the same
ancient race. This was the formidable Dutch
Sam, who fought at nine stone six, and yet pos-
sessed such hitting powers, that his admirers, in
after years, were willing to back him against the
fourteen-stone Tom Cribb, if each were strapped
a-straddle to a bench. Half a dozen other sallow
Hebrew faces showed how energetically the Jews
of Houndsditch and Whitechapel had taken to
the sport of the land of their adoption, and that
in this, as in more serious fields of human effort,
they could hold their own with the best.
It was my neighbour Warr who very good-
humouredly pointed out to me all these celebri-
180


RODNEY STONE
boxers in England that could stand up against
him.”
“You're right there, Jack 'Arrison. E was
one of the three who came up to fight when the
best men of Birmingham challenged the best
men of London. 'E's an evergreen, is Tom.
Why, he was turned five-and-fifty when he chal-
lenged and beat, after fifty minutes of it, Jack
Thornhill, who was tough enough to take it out
of many a youngster. It's better to give odds
in weight than in years.”
“Youth will be served,” said a crooning voice
from the other side of the table. “Ay, masters,
youth will be served.”
The man who had spoken was the most extra-
ordinary of all the many curious figures in the
room. He was very, very old, so old that he
was past all comparison, and no one by looking
at his mummy skin and fish-like eyes could give
a guess at his years. A few scanty grey hairs
still hung about his yellow scalp. As to his feat-
ures, they were scarcely human in their disfigure-
ment, for the deep wrinkles and pouchings of
extreme age had been added to a face which
had always been grotesquely ugly, and had been
crushed and smashed in addition by many a
blow. I had noticed this creature at the begin-
ning of the meal, leaning his chest against the
edge of the table as if its support was a welcome
182


THE MEN OF THE RING
one, and feebly picking at the food which was
placed before him. Gradually, however, as his
neighbours plied him with drink, his shoulders
grew squarer, his back stiffened, his eyes bright-
ened, and he looked about him, with an air of
surprise at first, as if he had no clear recollection
of how he came there, and afterwards with an
expression of deepening interest, as he listened,
with his ear scooped up in his hand, to the con-
versation around him.
“That's old Buckhorse,” whispered Champion
Harrison. “He was just the same as that when
I joined the ring twenty years ago. Time was
when he was the terror of London.”
“’B was so,” said Bill Warr. “’E would fight
like a stag, and 'e was that 'ard that 'e would let
any swell knock 'im down for 'alf-a-crown. 'E
'ad no face to spoil, dye see, for 'e was always
the ugliest man in England. But 'e's been on
the shelf now for near sixty years, and it cost im
many a beatin before 'e could understand that
'is strength was slippin' away from 'im.”
“Youth will be served, masters,” droned the
old man, shaking his head miserably.
“Fill up is glass,” said Warr. “‘Ere Tom,
give old Buckhorse a sup o' liptrap. Warm his
'eart for 'im.”
The old man poured a glass of neat gin down
his shrivelled throat, and the effect upon him was
183


RODNEY STONE
extraordinary. A light glimmered in each of his
dull eyes, a tinge of colour came into his wax-
like cheeks, and, opening his toothless mouth, he
suddenly emitted a peculiar, bell-like, and most
musical cry. A hoarse roar of laughter from
all the company answered it, and flushed faces
craned over each other to catch a glimpse of the
Veteran.
“There's Buckhorse!” they cried. “Buckhorse
is comin' round again.”
“You can laugh if you vill, masters,” he cried,
in his Lewkner Lane dialect, holding up his two
thin, vein-covered hands. “It won't be long
that you'll be able to see my crooks vich 'ave
been on Figg's conk, and on Jack Broughton's,
and on 'Arry Gray's, and many another good
fightin' man that was millin' for a livin' before
your fathers could eat pap.”
The company laughed again, and encouraged
the old man by half-derisive and half-affectionate
cries.
“Let 'em 'ave it, Buckhorse ! Give it 'em
straight! Tell us how the millin' coves did it in
your time.”
The old gladiator looked round him in great
contempt.
“Vy, from vot I see,” he cried, in his high,
broken treble, “there's some on you that ain’t
fit to flick a fly from a joint o' meat. You'd
184


THE MEN OF THE RING
make werry good ladies' maids, the most of you,
but you took the wrong turnin’ ven you came
into the ring.”
“Give 'im a wipe over the mouth,” said a
hoarse voice.
“Joe Berks,” said Jackson, “I’d save the
hangman the job of breaking your neck if His
Royal Highness wasn't in the room.”
“That's as it may be, guv'nor,” said the half-
drunken ruffian, staggering to his feet. “If I've
said anything wot isn't genelmanlike—”
“Sit down, Berks!” cried my uncle, with
such a tone of command that the fellow col-
lapsed into his chair.
“Vy, vitch of you would look Tom Slack in
the face?” piped the old fellow; “or Jack
Broughton?—him vot told the old Dook of
Cumberland that all he wanted vas to fight the
King o' Proosia's guard, day by day, year in,
year out, until 'e'ad worked out the whole regi-
ment of 'em—and the smallest of 'em six foot
long. There's not more'n a few of you could it
a dint in a pat o' butter, and if you gets a smack
or two it's all over vith you. Vich among you
could get up again after such a vipe as the Ey-
talian Gondoleery cove gave to Bob Vittaker?”
“What was that, Buckhorse ?” cried several
voices.
“’E came over 'ere from voreign parts, and 'e
185


RODNEY STONE
was so broad 'e 'ad to come edgewise through
the doors. 'E 'ad so, upon my davy ! 'E was
that strong that wherever 'e it the bone had got
to go; and when 'e'd cracked a jaw or two it
looked as though nothing in the country could
stan against him. So the King 'e sent one of
his genelmen down to Figg and he said to him:
‘’Ere's a cove vot cracks a bone every time 'e
lets vly, and it'll be little credit to the Lunnon
boys if they let's 'im get avay vithout a vack-
ing.’ So Figg he ups, and he says, “I do not
know, master, but he may break one of is coun-
trymen's jawbones vid is vist, but I'll bring im
a Cockney lad and 'e shall not be able to break
'is jawbone with a sledge 'ammer. I was with
Figg in Slaughter's coffee-'ouse, as then vas, ven
'e says this to the King's genelman, and I goes
so, I does!” Again he emitted the curious bell-
like cry, and again the Corinthians and the fight-
ing-men laughed and applauded him.
“His Royal Highness—that is, the Earl of
Chester—would be glad to hear the end of your
story, Buckhorse,” said my uncle, to whom the
Prince had been whispering.
“Well, your Ryal Ighness, it was like this.
Ven the day came round, all the volk came to
Figg's Amphitheatre, the same that vos in Tot-
tenham Court, an' Bob Vittaker 'e vos there,
and the Eytalian Gondoleery cove 'e vas there,
186


THE MEN OF THE RING
and all the purlitest, genteelest crowd that ever
vos, twenty thousand of 'em, all sittin' with their
'eads like purtaties on a barrer, banked right up
round the stage, and me there to pick up Bob,
dye see, and Jack Figg imself just for fair play
to do vot was right by the cove from voreign
parts. They was packed all round, the folks
was, but down through the middle of 'em was a
passage just so as the gentry could come through
to their seats, and the stage it was of wood, as
the custom then vas, and a man's 'eight above
the 'eads of the people. Well, then, ven Bob was
put up opposite this great Eytalian man I says
“Slap im in the vind, Bob,' 'cos I could see vid
'alf an eye that he was as puffy as a cheesecake;
so Bob he goes in, and as he comes the vorriner
let 'im 'ave it amazin’ on the conk. I'eard the
thump of it, and I kind o' velt somethin vistle
past me, but ven I looked there vas the Eytal-
ian a feelin' of is muscles in the middle o’ the
stage, and as to Bob, there vern’t no sign of 'im
at all no more n if 'e'd never been.”
His audience was riveted by the old prize-
fighter's story. “Well,” cried a dozen voices,
“what then, Buckhorse: 'ad 'e swallowed 'im,
or what ?”
“Well, boys, that was vat I wondered, when
sudden I seed two legs a-stickin' up out o' the
crowd a long way off, just like these two vingers,
13 187


RODNEY STONE
d'ye see, and I knewed they vas Bob's legs, see-
in that 'e 'ad kind o' yellow small clothes vid
blue ribbons—vich blue vas is colour—at the
knee. So they up-ended im, they did, an they
made a lane for 'im an' cheered 'im to give im
'eart, though 'e never lacked for that. At virst
'e vas that dazed that 'e didn't know if 'e vas in
church or in 'Orsemonger Gaol; but ven I'd bit
'is two ears 'e shook 'isself together. “We'll try
it again, Buck, says 'e. ‘The mark l’ says I.
And 'e vinked all that vas left o' one eye. So
the Eytalian 'e lets swing again, but Bob 'e
jumps inside an 'e lets 'im 'ave it plumb square
on the meat safe as 'ard as ever the Lord would
let 'im put it in.”
“Well? Well ?”
“Well, the Eytalian 'e got a touch of the gur-
gles, an 'e shut 'imself right up like a two-foot
rule. Then 'e pulled 'imself straight, an 'e gave
the most awful Glory Allelujah screech as ever
you 'eard. Off'ejumps from the stage an down
the passage as 'ard as is 'oofs would carry 'im.
Up jumps the 'ole crowd, and after 'im as 'ard
as they could move for laughin'. They vas lyin'
in the kennel three deep all down Tottenham
Court Road wid their 'ands to their sides just vit
to break themselves in two. Vell, ve chased im
down 'Olburn, an down Fleet Street, an down
Cheapside, an' past the 'Change, and on all the
188


THE MEN OF THE RING
vay to Woppin', an' we only catched 'im in the
shippin' office, vere 'evas askin' 'ow soon 'e could
get a passage to voreign parts.”
There was much laughter and clapping of
glasses upon the table at the conclusion of old
Buckhorse's story, and I saw the Prince of Wales
hand something to the waiter, who brought it
round and slipped it into the skinny hand of the
veteran, who spat upon it before thrusting it
into his pocket. The table had in the mean-
while been cleared, and was now studded with
bottles and glasses, while long clay pipes and
tobacco-boxes were handed round. My uncle
never smoked, thinking that the habit might
darken his teeth, but many of the Corinthians,
and the Prince amongst the first of them, set
the example of lighting up. All restraint had
been done away with, and the prize-fighters,
flushed with wine, roared across the tables to
each other, or shouted their greetings to friends
at the other end of the room. The amateurs,
falling into the humour of their company, were
hardly less noisy, and loudly debated the merits
of the different men, criticizing their styles of
fighting before their faces, and making bets upon
the results of future matches.
In the midst of the uproar there was an im-
perative rap upon the table, and my uncle rose
to speak. As he stood with his pale, calm face
189


RODNEY STONE
and fine figure, I had never seen him to greater
advantage, for he seemed, with all his elegance,
to have a quiet air of domination amongst these
fierce fellows, like a huntsman walking careless-
ly through a springing and yapping pack. He
expressed his pleasure at seeing so many good
sportsmen under one roof, and acknowledged the
honour which had been done both to his guests
and himself by the presence there that night of
the illustrious personage whom he should refer
to as the Earl of Chester. He was sorry that
the season prevented him from placing game
upon the table, but there was so much sitting
round it that it would perhaps be hardly missed
(cheers and laughter). The sports of the ring
had, in his opinion, tended to that contempt of
pain and of danger which had contributed so
much in the past to the safety of the country,
and which might, if what he heard was true, be
very quickly needed once more. If an enemy
landed upon our shores it was then that, with
our small army, we should be forced to fall back
upon native valour trained into hardihood by the
practice and contemplation of manly sports. In
time of peace also the rules of the ring had been
of service in enforcing the principles of fair play,
and in turning public opinion against that use of
the knife or of the boot which was so common in
foreign countries. He begged, therefore, to drink
190


THE MEN OF THE RING
“Success to the Fancy,” coupled with the name
of John Jackson, who might stand as a type of
all that was most admirable in British boxing.
Jackson having replied with a readiness which
many a public man might have envied, my uncle
TOSe Once Imore.
“We are here to-night,” said he, “not only to
celebrate the past glories of the prize ring, but
also to arrange some sport for the future. It
should be easy, now that backers and fighting-
men are gathered together under one roof, to
come to terms with each other. I have myself
set an example by making a match with Sir
Lothian Hume, the terms of which will be com-
municated to you by that gentleman.”
Sir Lothian rose with a paper in his hand.
“The terms, your Royal Highness and gen-
tlemen, are briefly these,” said he. “My man,
Crab Wilson, of Gloucester, having never yet
fought a prize battle, is prepared to meet, upon
May 18th of this year, any man of any weight
who may be selected by Sir Charles Tregellis.
Sir Charles Tregellis's selection is limited to men
below twenty or above thirty-five years of age,
so as to exclude Belcher and the other candidates
for championship honours. The stakes are two
thousand pounds against a thousand, two hun-
dred to be paid by the winner to his man; play
or pay.”
*
191


RODNEY STONE
It was curious to see the intense gravity of
them all, fighters and backers, as they bent their
brows and weighed the conditions of the match.
“I am informed,” said Sir John Lade, “that
Crab Wilson's age is twenty-three, and that, al-
though he has never fought a regular P.R. battle,
he has none the less fought within ropes for a
stake on many occasions.”
“I 've seen him half a dozen times at the
least,” said Belcher.
“It is precisely for that reason, Sir John, that
I am laying odds of two to one in his favour.”
“May I ask,” said the Prince, “what the
exact height and weight of Wilson may be?”
“Five foot eleven and thirteen-ten, your Royal
Highness.”
“Long enough and heavy enough for any-
thing on two legs,” said Jackson, and the profes-
sionals all murmured their assent.
“Read the rules of the fight, Sir Lothian.”
“The battle to take place on Tuesday, May
the 18th, at the hour of ten in the morning, at a
spot to be afterwards named. The ring to be
twenty foot square. Neither to fall without a
knock-down blow, subject to the decision of the
umpires. Three umpires to be chosen upon the
ground, namely, two in ordinary and one in
reference. Does that meet your wishes, Sir
Charles?”
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RODNEY STONE
And then, as these full-blooded, powerful men
became heated with their wine, angry eyes began
to glare across the table, and amid the grey
swirls of tobacco-smoke the lamp-light gleamed
upon the fierce, hawk-like Jews, and the flushed,
savage Saxons. The old quarrel as to whether
Jackson had or had not committed a foul by
seizing Mendoza by the hair on the occasion of
their battle at Hornchurch, eight years before,
came to the front once more. Dutch Sam
hurled a shilling down upon the table, and of-
fered to fight the Pride of Westminster for it if
he ventured to say that Mendoza had been fairly
beaten. Joe Berks, who had grown noisier and
more quarrelsome as the evening went on, tried
to clamber across the table, with horrible blas-
phemies, to come to blows with an old Jew
named Fighting Yussef, who had plunged into
the discussion. It needed very little more to
finish the supper by a general and ferocious
battle, and it was only the exertions of Jackson,
Belcher, Harrison, and others of the cooler and
steadier men, which saved us from a riot.
And then, when at last this question was set
aside, that of the rival claims to championships
at different weights came on in its stead, and
again angry words flew about and challenges
were in the air. There was no exact limit be-
tween the light, middle, and heavy-weights, and
194


THE MEN OF THE RING
yet it would make a very great difference to the
standing of a boxer whether he should be re-
garded as the heaviest of the light-weights, or
the lightest of the heavy-weights. One claimed
to be ten-stone champion, another was ready to
take on anything at eleven, but would not run
to twelve, which would have brought the invin-
cible Jem Belcher down upon him. Faulkner
claimed to be champion of the seniors, and even
old Buckhorse's curious call rang out above the
tumult as he turned the whole company to
laughter and good humour again by challenging
anything over eighty and under seven stone.
But in spite of gleams of sunshine, there was
thunder in the air, and Champion Harrison had
just whispered in my ear that he was quite sure
that we should never get through the night
without trouble, and was advising me, if it got
very bad, to take refuge under the table, when
the landlord entered the room hurriedly and
handed a note to my uncle.
He read it, and then passed it to the Prince,
who returned it with raised eyebrows and a
gesture of surprise. Then my uncle rose with
the scrap of paper in his hand and a smile upon
his lips.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “there is a stranger
waiting below who desires a fight to a finish
with the best man in the room.”
195


CHAPTER XI
THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE
THE curt announcement was followed by a mo-
ment of silent surprise, and then by a general
shout of laughter. There might be argument as
to who was champion at each weight; but there
could be no question that all the champions of
all the weights were seated round the tables.
An audacious challenge which embraced them
one and all, without regard to size or age, could
hardly be regarded otherwise than as a joke—
but it was a joke which might be a dear one for
the joker.
“Is this genuine?” asked my uncle.
“Yes, Sir Charles,” answered the landlord;
“the man is waiting below.”
“It's a kid !” cried several of the fighting-men.
“Some cove is a gammonin us.”
“Don’t you believe it,” answered the landlord.
“He’s a real slap-up Corinthian, by his dress;
and he means what he says, or else I ain't no
judge of a man.”
My uncle whispered for a few moments with
the Prince of Wales. “Well, gentlemen,” said
he, at last, “the night #. still young, and if any


THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE
of you should wish to show the company a little
of your skill, you could not ask a better oppor-
tunity.”
“What weight is he, Bill?” asked Jem
Belcher. -
“He’s close on six foot, and I should put him
well into the thirteen stones when he's buffed.”
“Heavy metal!” cried Jackson. “Who takes
him on ?”
They all wanted to, from nine-stone Dutch
Sam upwards. The air was filled with their
hoarse shouts and their arguments why each
should be the chosen one. To fight when they
were flushed with wine and ripe for mischief—
above all, to fight before so select a company
with the Prince at the ringside, was a chance
which did not often come in their way. Only
Jackson, Belcher, Mendoza, and one or two
others of the senior and more famous men re-
mained silent, thinking it beneath their dignity
that they should condescend to so irregular a
bye-battle.
“Well, you can't all fight him,” remarked
Jackson, when the babel had died away. “It's
for the chairman to choose.”
“Perhaps your Royal Highness has a prefer-
ence,” said my uncle.
“By Jove, I'd take him on myself if my posi-
tion was different,” said the Prince, whose face
197


RODNEY STONE
was growing redder and his eyes more glazed.
“You’ve seen me with the mufflers, Jackson |
You know my form !”
“I’ve seen your Royal Highness, and I have
felt your Royal Highness,” said the courtly
Jackson.
“Perhaps Jem Belcher would give us an ex-
hibition,” said my uncle.
Belcher smiled and shook his handsome head.
“There's my brother Tom here has never been
blooded in London yet, sir. He might make a
fairer match of it.”
“Give him over to me!” roared Joe Berks.
“I’ve been waitin’ for a turn all evenin', an I'll
fight any man that tries to take my place. 'E's
my meat, my masters. Leave 'im to me if you
want to see 'ow a calf's 'ead should be dressed.
If you put Tom Belcher before me I'll fight Tom
Belcher, an’ for that matter I'll fight Jem
Belcher, or Bill Belcher, or any other Belcher
that ever came out of Bristol.”
It was clear that Berks had got to the stage
when he must fight some one. His heavy face
was gorged and the veins stood out on his low
forehead, while his fierce grey eyes looked vi-
ciously from man to man in quest of a quarrel.
His great red hands were bunched into huge,
gnarled fists, and he shook one of them menac-
ingly as his drunken gaze swept round the tables.
198


THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE
“I think you'll agree with me, gentlemen, that
Joe Berks would be all the better for some fresh
air and exercise,” said my uncle. “With the
concurrence of His Royal Highness and of the
company, I shall select him as our champion on
this occasion.”
“You do me proud,” cried the fellow, stagger-
ing to his feet and pulling at his coat. “If I
don't glut him within the five minutes, may I
never see Shropshire again.”
“Wait a bit, Berks,” cried several of the
amateurs. “Where's it going to be held?”
“Where you like, masters. I'll fight him in a
sawpit, or on the outside of a coach if it please
you. Put us toe to toe, and leave the rest with
me.”
“They can't fight here with all this litter,” said
my uncle. “Where shall it be?”
“'Pon my soul, Tregellis,” cried the Prince,
“I think our unknown friend might have a word
to say upon that matter. He'll be vastly ill-
used if you don't let him have his own choice of
conditions.”
“You are right, sir. We must have him up.”
“That's easy enough,” said the landlord, “for
here he comes through the doorway.”
I glanced round and had a side view of a tall
and well-dressed young man in a long, brown
travelling coat and a black felt hat. The next
199


RODNEY STONE
instant he had turned and I had clutched with
both my hands on to Champion Harrison's arm.
“Harrison 1" I gasped. “It's Boy Jim 1"
And yet somehow the possibility and even the
probability of it had occurred to me from the be-
ginning, and I believe that it had to Harrison
also, for I had noticed that his face grew grave
and troubled from the very moment that there
was talk of the stranger below. Now, the in-
stant that the buzz of surprise and admiration
caused by Jim's face and figure had died away,
Harrison was on his feet, gesticulating in his ex-
citement.
“It's my nephew Jim, gentlemen,” he cried.
“He’s not twenty yet, and it's no doing of mine
that he should be here.”
“Let him alone, Harrison,” cried Jackson.
“He's big enough to take care of himself.”
“This matter has gone rather far,” said my
uncle. “I think, Harrison, that you are too
good a sportsman to prevent your nephew from
showing whether he takes after his uncle.”
“It's very different from me,” cried Harrison,
in great distress. “But I'll tell you what I'll do,
gentlemen. I never thought to stand up in a
ring again, but I'll take on Joe Berks with pleas-
ure, just to give a bit o' sport to this company.”
Boy Jim stepped across and laid his hand upon
the prize-fighter's shoulder.
200


THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE
“It must be so, uncle,” I heard him whisper.
“I am sorry to go against your wishes, but I
have made up my mind, and I must carry it
through.”
Harrison shrugged his huge shoulders.
“Jim, Jim, you don't know what you are do-
ing ! But I’ve heard you speak like that before,
boy, and I know that it ends in your getting
your way.”
“I trust, Harrison, that your opposition is
withdrawn?” said my uncle.
“Can I not take his place?”
“You would not have it said that I gave a
challenge and let another carry it out?” whis-
pered Jim. “This is my one chance. For
Heaven's sake don't stand in my way.”
The smith's broad and usually stolid face was
all working with his conflicting emotions. At
last he banged his fist down upon the table.
“It's no fault of mine !” he cried. “It was to
be and it is. Jim, boy, for the Lord's sake re-
member your distances, and stick to out-fightin'
with a man that could give you a stone.”
“I was sure that Harrison would not stand in
the way of sport,” said my uncle. “We are glad
that you have stepped up, that we might consult
you as to the arrangements for giving effect to
your very sporting challenge.”
“Whom am I to fight?” asked Jim, looking
201


THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE
“Why not go round to the Five's Court?”
suggested Sir John Lade.
“Yes, let us go to the Five's Court.”
But this did not at all suit the views of the
landlord, who saw in this lucky incident a chance
of reaping a fresh harvest from his spendthrift
company.
“If it please you,” he cried, “there is no need
to go so far. My coach-house at the back of the
yard is empty, and a better place for a mill you'll
never find.”
There was a general shout in favour of the
coach-house, and those who were nearest the
door began to slip through, in the hope of secur-
ing the best places. My stout neighbour, Bill
Warr, pulled Harrison to one side.
“I’d stop it if I were you,” he whispered.
“I would if I could. It's no wish of mine
that he should fight. But there's no turning
him when once his mind is made up.” All his
own fights put together had never reduced the
pugilist to such a state of agitation.
“Wait on 'im yourself, then, and chuck up the
sponge when things begin to go wrong. You
know Joe Berks's record?”
“He’s since my time.”
“Well, 'e's a terror, that's all. It's only
Belcher that can master 'im. You see the man
for yourself, six foot, fourteen stone, and full of
14 203


RODNEY STONE
the devil. Belcher's beat 'im twice, but the sec-
ond time 'e 'ad all is work to do it.”
“Well, well, we've got to go through with it.
You've not seen Boy Jim put his mawleys up,
or maybe you'd think better of his chances.
When he was short of sixteen he licked the Cock
of the South Downs, and he's come on a long
way since then.”
The company was swarming through the door
and clattering down the stair, so we followed in
the stream. A fine rain was falling, and the yel-
low lights from the windows glistened upon the
wet cobblestones of the yard. How welcome
was that breath of sweet, damp air after the
fetid atmosphere of the supper-room. At the
other end of the yard was an open door sharply
outlined by the gleam of lanterns within, and
through this they poured, amateurs and fighting-
men jostling each other in their eagerness to get
to the front. For my own part, being a smallish
man, I should have seen nothing had I not found
an upturned bucket in a corner, upon which I
perched myself with the wall at my back.
It was a large room with a wooden floor and
an open square in the ceiling, which was fringed
with the heads of the ostlers and stable boys who
were looking down from the harness-room above.
A carriage-lamp was slung in each corner, and a
very large * from a rafter in


THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE
the centre. A coil of rope had been brought in,
and under the direction of Jackson four men had
been stationed to hold it.
“What space do you give them?” asked my
uncle.
“Twenty-four, as they are both big ones, sir.”
“Very good, and half-minutes between rounds,
I suppose? I'll umpire if Sir Lothian Hume
will do the same, and you can hold the watch
and referee, Jackson.”
With great speed and exactness every prepara-
tion was rapidly made by these experienced men.
Mendoza and Dutch Sam were commissioned to
attend to Berks, while Belcher and Jack Harrison
did the same for Boy Jim. Sponges, towels, and
some brandy in a bladder were passed over the
heads of the crowd for the use of the seconds.
“Here's our man,” cried Belcher. “Come
along, Berks, or we'll go to fetch you.”
Jim appeared in the ring stripped to the waist,
with a coloured handkerchief tied round his
middle. A shout of admiration came from the
spectators as they looked upon the fine lines of
his figure, and I found myself roaring with the
rest. His shoulders were sloping rather than
bulky, and his chest was deep rather than broad,
but the muscle was all in the right place, rippling
down in long, low curves from neck to shoulder,
and from shoulder to elbow. His work at the
205


RODNEY STONE
anvil had developed his arms to their utmost,
and his healthy country living gave a sleek gloss
to his ivory skin, which shone in the lamplight.
His expression was full of spirit and confidence,
and he wore a grim sort of half-smile which I
had seen many a time in our boyhood, and which
meant, I knew, that his pride had set iron hard,
and that his senses would fail him long before
his courage.
Joe Berks in the meanwhile had swaggered in
and stood with folded arms between his seconds
in the opposite corner. His face had none of the
eager alertness of his opponent, and his skin, of a
dead white, with heavy folds about the chest and
ribs, showed, even to my inexperienced eyes, that
he was not a man who should fight without train-
ing. A life of toping and ease had left him
flabby and gross. On the other hand, he was
famous for his mettle and for his hitting power,
so that, even in the face of the advantages of
youth and condition, the betting was three to
one in his favour. His heavy-jowled, clean-
shaven face expressed ferocity as well as courage,
and he stood with his small, blood-shot eyes fixed
viciously upon Jim, and his lumpy shoulders
stooping a little forwards, like a fierce hound
straining on a leash.
The hubbub of the betting had risen until it
drowned all other sounds, men shouting their
206


THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE
opinions from one side of the coach-house to the
other, and waving their hands to attract atten-
tion, or as a sign that they had accepted a wager.
Sir John Lade, standing just in front of me, was
roaring out the odds against Jim, and laying
them freely with those who fancied the appear-
ance of the unknown.
“I’ve seen Berks fight,” said he to the Honour-
able Berkeley Craven. “No country hawbuck is
going to knock out a man with such a record.”
“He may be a country hawbuck,” the other
answered, “but I have been reckoned a judge of
anything either on two legs or four, and I tell
you, Sir John, that I never saw a man who
looked better bred in my life. Are you still
laying against him?”
“Three to one.”
“Have you once in hundreds.”
“Very good, Craven! There they go! Berks!
Berks | Bravo! Berks | Bravo! I think, Craven,
that I shall trouble you for that hundred.”
The two men had stood up to each other, Jim
as light upon his feet as a goat, with his left well
out and his right thrown across the lower part
of his chest, while Berks held both arms half
extended and his feet almost level, so that he
might lead off with either side. For an instant
they looked each other over, and then Berks,
ducking his head and rushing in with a hand-
* * * *
207


RODNEY STONE
over-hand style of hitting, bored Jim down into
his corner. It was a backward slip rather than
a knockdown, but a thin trickle of blood was
seen at the corner of Jim's mouth. In an instant
the seconds had seized their men and carried
them back into their corners.
“Do you mind doubling our bet?” said
Berkeley Craven, who was craning his neck to
get a glimpse of Jim.
“Four to one on Berks | Four to one on
Berks!” cried the ringsiders.
“The odds have gone up, you see. Will you
have four to one in hundreds '"
“Very good, Sir John.”
“You seem to fancy him more for having
been knocked down.”
“He was pushed down, but he stopped every
blow, and I liked the look on his face as he got
up again.”
“Well, it's the old stager for me. Here they
come again! He's got a pretty style, and he
covers his points well, but it isn't the best look-
ing that wins.”
They were at it again, and I was jumping
about upon my bucket in my excitement. It
was evident that Berks meant to finish the battle
off-hand, whilst Jim, with two of the most ex-
perienced men in England to advise him, was
quite aware that his correct tactics were to allow
208


THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE
any great exertion to keep him at arms length.
He led at Berks's head, as he came rushing in,
and missed him, receiving a severe body blow
in return, which left the imprint of four angry
knuckles above his ribs. As they closed Jim
caught his opponent's bullet head under his arm
for an instant, and put a couple of half-arm
blows in; but the prize-fighter pulled him over
by his weight, and the two fell panting side by
side upon the ground. Jim sprang up, however,
and walked over to his corner, while Berks, dis-
tressed by his evening's dissipation, leaned one
arm upon Mendoza and the other upon Dutch
Sam as he made for his seat.
“Bellows to mend l” cried Jem Belcher.
“Where's the four to one now?”
“Give us time to get the lid off our pepper-
box,” said Mendoza. “We mean to make a
night of it.”
“Looks like it,” said Jack Harrison. “He’s
shut one of his eyes already. Even money that
my boy wins it!”
“How much 2" asked several voices.
“Two pound four and threepence,” cried Har-
rison, counting out all his worldly wealth.
“Time !” said Jackson once more.
They were both at the mark in an instant, Jim
as full of sprightly confidence as ever, and Berks
with a fixed grin upon his bull-dog face and a
211


RODNEY STONE
most vicious gleam in the only eye which was of
use to him. His half-minute had not enabled
him to recover his breath, and his huge, hairy
chest was rising and falling with a quick, loud
panting like a spent hound. “Go in, boy!
Bustle him !” roared Harrison and Belcher.
“Get your wind, Joe; get your wind l” cried
the Jews. So now we had a reversal of tactics,
for it was Jim who went in to hit with all the
vigour of his young strength and unimpaired
energy, while it was the savage Berks who was
paying his debt to Nature for the many injuries
which he had done her. He gasped, he gurgled,
his face grew purple in his attempts to get his
breath, while with his long left arm extended
and his right thrown across, he tried to screen
himself from the attack of his wiry antagonist.
“Drop when he hits!” cried Mendoza. “Drop
and have a rest !”
But there was no shyness or shiftiness about
Berks's fighting. He was always a gallant
ruffian, who disdained to go down before an
antagonist as long as his legs would sustain him.
He propped Jim off with his long arm, and
though the lad sprang lightly round him looking
for an opening, he was held off as if a forty-inch
bar of iron were between them. Every instant
now was in favour of Berks, and already his
breathing was easier and the bluish tinge fading
212


THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE
from his face. Jim knew that his chance of a
speedy victory was slipping away from him, and
he came back again and again as swift as a flash
to the attack without being able to get past the
passive defence of the trained fighting-man. It
was at such a moment that ringcraft was needed,
and luckily for Jim two masters of it were at his
back.
“Get your left on his mark, boy,” they
shouted, “then go to his head with the right.”
Jim heard and acted on the instant. Plunk |
came his left just where his antagonist's ribs
curved from his breast-bone. The force of the
blow was half broken by Berks's elbow, but it
served its purpose of bringing forward his head.
Spank I went the right, with the clear, crisp
sound of two billiard balls clapping together, and
Berks reeled, flung up his arms, spun round, and
fell in a huge, fleshy heap upon the floor. His
seconds were on him instantly, and propped him
up in a sitting position, his head rolling help-
lessly from one shoulder to the other, and finally
toppling backwards with his chin pointed to the
ceiling. Dutch Sam thrust the brandy-bladder
between his teeth, while Mendoza shook him
savagely and howled insults in his ear, but
neither the spirits nor the sense of injury could
break into that serene insensibility. “Time !”
was duly called, and the Jews, seeing that the
213


RODNEY STONE
affair was over, let their man's head fall back
with a crack upon the floor, and there he lay, his
huge arms and legs asprawl, whilst the Corin-
thians and fighting-men crowded past him to
shake the hand of his conqueror.
For my part, I tried also to press through the
throng, but it was no easy task for one of the
smallest and weakest men in the room. On all
sides of me I heard a brisk discussion from
amateurs and professionals of Jim's performance
and of his prospects.
“He's the best bit of new stuff that I’ve seen
since Jem Belcher fought his first fight with Pad-
dington Jones at Wormwood Scrubbs four years
ago last April,” said Berkeley Craven. “You’ll
see him with the belt round his waist before he's
five-and-twenty, or I am no judge of a man.”
“That handsome face of his has cost me a
cool five hundred,” grumbled Sir John Lade.
“Who'd have thought he was such a punishing
hitter?”
“For all that,” said another, “I am confident
that if Joe Berks had been sober he would have
eaten him. Besides, the lad was in training, and
the other would burst like an overdone potato if
he were hit. I never saw a man so soft, or with
his wind in such condition. Put the men in
training, and it's a horse to a hen on the bruiser.”
Some agreed with the last speaker and some
214 -


THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE
were against him, so that a brisk argument was
being carried on around me. In the midst of it
the Prince took his departure, which was the
signal for the greater part of the company to
make for the door. In this way I was able at
last to reach the corner where Jim had just
finished his dressing, while Champion Harrison,
with tears of joy still shining upon his cheeks,
was helping him on with his overcoat.
“In four rounds!” he kept repeating in a sort
of an ecstasy. “Joe Berks in four rounds!
And it took Jem Belcher fourteen l’
“Well, Roddy,” cried Jim, holding out his
hand, “I told you that I would come to London
and make my name known.”
“It was splendid, Jim !”
“Dear old Roddy! I saw your white face
staring at me from the corner. You are not
changed, for all your grand clothes and your
London friends.”
“It is you who are changed, Jim,” said I; “I
hardly knew you when you came into the
room.”
“Nor I,” cried the smith. “Where got you
all these fine feathers, Jim ? Sure I am that it
was not your aunt who helped you to the first
step towards the prize-ring.”
“Miss Hinton has been my friend—the best
friend I ever had.”
215


RODNEY STONE
“Humph ! I thought as much,” grumbled
the smith. “Well, it is no doing of mine, Jim,
and you must bear witness to that when we go
home again. I don't know what—but, there, it
is done, and it can't be helped. After all, she's
Now, the deuce take my clumsy
tongue !”
I could not tell whether it was the wine which
he had taken at supper or the excitement of Boy
Jim's victory which was affecting Harrison, but
his usually placid face wore a most disturbed ex-
pression, and his manner seemed to betray an
alternation of exultation and embarrassment.
Jim looked curiously at him, wondering evi-
dently what it was that lay behind these abrupt
sentences and sudden silences. The coach-
house had in the meantime been cleared ; Berks
with many curses had staggered at last to his
feet, and had gone off in company with two
other bruisers, while Jem Belcher alone remained
chatting very earnestly with my uncle.
“Very good, Belcher,” I heard my uncle say.
“It would be a real pleasure to me to do it,
sir,” said the famous prize-fighter, as the two
walked towards us.
“I wished to ask you, Jim Harrison, whether
you would undertake to be my champion in the
fight against Crab Wilson of Gloucester?” said
my uncle.
216


THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE
“That is what I want, Sir Charles—to have a
chance of fighting my way upwards.”
“There are heavy stakes upon the event—
very heavy stakes,” said my uncle. “You will
receive two hundred pounds, if you win. Does
that satisfy you?”
“I shall fight for the honour, and because I
wish to be thought worthy of being matched
against Jem Belcher.”
Belcher laughed good-humouredly.
“You are going the right way about it, lad,”
said he. “But you had a soft thing on to-night
with a drunken man who was out of condi-
tion.”
“I did not wish to fight him,” said Jim, flush-
II.10.
# Oh, I know you have spirit enough to fight
anything on two legs. I knew that the instant
I clapped eyes on you; but I want you to re-
member that when you fight Crab Wilson, you
will fight the most promising man from the west,
and that the best man of the west is likely to be
the best man in England. He's as quick and as
long in the reach as you are, and he'll train him-
self to the last half-ounce of tallow. I tell you
this now, dye see, because if I'm to have the
charge of you 95
“Charge of me!”
“Yes,” said my uncle. “Belcher has con-
217


RODNEY STONE
sented to train you for the coming battle if you
are willing to enter.”
“I am sure I am very much obliged to you,”
cried Jim, heartily. “Unless my uncle should
wish to train me, there is no one I would rather
have.”
“Nay, Jim; I'll stay with you a few days,
but Belcher knows a deal more about training
than I do. Where will the quarters be?”
“I thought it would be handy for you if we
fixed it at the George, at Crawley. Then, if we
have choice of place, we might choose Crawley
Down, for, except Molesey Hurst, and, maybe,
Smitham Bottom, there isn't a spot in the coun-
try that would compare with it for a mill. Do
you agree with that?”
“With all my heart,” said Jim.
“Then you're my man from this hour on,
dye see?” said Belcher. “Your food is mine,
and your drink is mine, and your sleep is mine,
and all you've to do is just what you are told.
We haven't an hour to lose, for Wilson has been
in half-training this month back. You saw his
empty glass to-night.”
“Jim's fit to fight for his life at the present
moment,” said Harrison. “But we'll both come
down to Crawley to-morrow. So good night,
Sir Charles.”
“Good night, Roddy,” said Jim. “You’ll
218


THE FIGHT IN THE COACH-HOUSE
come down to Crawley and see me at my train-
ing quarters, will you not?”
And I heartily promised that I would.
“You must be more careful, nephew,” said
my uncle, as we rattled home in his model vis-à-
vis. “En première jeunesse one is a little in-
clined to be ruled by one's heart rather than by
one's reason. Jim Harrison seems to be a most
respectable young fellow, but after all he is a
blacksmith's apprentice, and a candidate for the
prize-ring. There is a vast gap between his
position and that of my own blood relation, and
you must let him feel that you are his superior.”
“He is the oldest and dearest friend that I
have in the world, sir,” I answered. “We were
boys together, and have never had a secret from
each other. As to showing him that I am his
superior, I don't know how I can do that, for I
know very well that he is mine.”
“Hum !” said my uncle, drily, and it was the
last word that he addressed to me that night.
15 219


THE COFFEE-ROOM OF FLADONG'S
to choose between them, but Wilson had been
the more severely tested.
It was but a few days before the battle that
my father made his promised visit to London.
The seaman had no love of cities, and was hap-
pier wandering over the Downs, and turning his
glass upon every topsail which showed above the
horizon,than when finding his wayamong crowded
streets, where, as he complained, it was impossi-
ble to keep a course by the sun, and hard enough
by dead reckoning. Rumours of war were in the
air, however, and it was necessary that he should
use his influence with Lord Nelson if a vacancy
were to be found either for himself or for me.
My uncle had just set forth, as was his custom
of an evening, clad in his green riding-frock, his
plate buttons, his Cordovan boots, and his round
hat, to show himself upon his crop-tailed tit in
the Mall. I had remained behind, for, indeed, I
had already made up my mind that I had no
calling for this fashionable life. These men, with
their small waists, their gestures, and their un-
natural ways, had become wearisome to me, and
even my uncle, with his cold and patronizing
manner, filled me with very mixed feelings.
My thoughts were back in Sussex, and I was
dreaming of the kindly, simple ways of the coun-
try, when there came a rat-tat at the knocker,
the ring of a hearty voice, and there, in the door-
221


RODNEY STONE
way, was the smiling, weather-beaten face, with
the puckered eyelids and the light blue eyes.
“Why, Roddy, you are grand indeed!” he
cried. “But I had rather see you with the
King's blue coat upon your back than with all
these frills and ruffles.”
“And I had rather wear it, father.”
“It warms my heart to hear you say so. Lord
Nelson has promised me that he would find a
berth for you, and to-morrow we shall seek him
out and remind him of it. But where is your
uncle?”
“He is riding in the Mall.”
A look of relief passed over my father's honest
face, for he was never very easy in his brother-in-
law's company. “I have been to the Admiralty,”
said he, “and I trust that I shall have a ship
when war breaks out; by all accounts it will not
be long first. Lord St. Vincent told me so with
his own lips. But I am at Fladong's, Rodney,
where, if you will come and sup with me, you
will see some of my messmates from the Mediter-
ranean.”
When you think that in the last year of the
war we had 140,000 seamen and marines afloat,
commanded by 4000 officers, and that half of
these had been turned adrift when the Peace of
Amiens laid their ships up in the Hamoaze or
Portsdown creek, you will understand that Lon-
222


RODNEY STONE
monly to brother. The rules of the service in-
sured that every face should be clean-shaven, every
head powdered, and every neck covered by the
little queue of natural hair tied with a black silk
ribbon. Biting winds and tropical suns had com-
bined to darken them, whilst the habit of com-
mand and the menace of ever-recurring dangers
had stamped them all with the same expression
of authority and of alertness. There were some
jovial faces amongst them, but the older officers,
with their deep-lined cheeks and their masterful
noses, were, for the most part, as austere as so
many weather-beaten ascetics from the desert.
Lonely watches, and a discipline which cut them
off from all companionship, had left their mark
upon those Red Indian faces. For my part, I
could hardly eat my supper for watching them.
Young as I was, I knew that if there were any
freedom left in Europe it was to these men that
we owed it; and I seemed to read upon their
grim, harsh features the record of that long ten
years of struggle which had swept the tricolour
from the seas.
When we had finished our supper, my father
led me into the great coffee-room, where a hun-
dred or more officers may have been assembled,
drinking their wine and smoking their long clay
pipes, until the air was as thick as the main-
deck in a close-fought action. As we entered
224


THE COFFEE-ROOM OF FLADONG'S
we found ourselves face to face with an elderly
officer who was coming out. He was a man
with large, thoughtful eyes, and a full, placid
face—such a face as one would expect from a
philosopher and a philanthropist, rather than
from a fighting seaman.
“Here's Cuddie Collingwood,” whispered my
father.
“Halloa, Lieutenant Stone !” cried the fa-
mous admiral very cheerily. “I have scarce
caught a glimpse of you since you came aboard
the Earcellent after St. Vincent. You had the
luck to be at the Nile also, I understand 2’
“I was third of the Theseus, under Millar, sir.”
“It nearly broke my heart to have missed it.
I have not yet outlived it. To think of such a
gallant service, and I engaged in harassing the
market-boats, the miserable cabbage-carriers of
St. Luccars l”
“Your plight was better than mine, Sir Cuth-
bert,” said a voice from behind us, and a large
man in the full uniform of a post-captain took a
step forward to include himself in our circle.
His mastiff face was heavy with emotion, and he
shook his head miserably as he spoke.
“Yes, yes, Troubridge, I can understand and
sympathize with your feelings.”
“I passed through torment that night, Col-
lingwood. It left a mark on me that I shall
225


THE COFFEE-ROOM OF FLADONG'S
I have been doing good work for the fleet up
yonder.”
“I had thought, sir, that it was inland,” said
my father.
Collingwood took a little black bag out of his
pocket and shook it.
“Inland it is,” said he, “and yet I have done
good work for the fleet there. What do you
suppose I hold in this bag?”
“Bullets,” said Troubridge.
“Something that a sailor needs even more
than that,” answered the admiral, and turning it
over he tilted a pile of acorns on to his palm.
“I carry them with me in my country walks,
and where I see a fruitful nook I thrust one
deep with the end of my cane. My oak trees
may fight those rascals over the water when I
am long forgotten. Do you know, lieutenant,
how many oaks go to make an eighty-gun ship?”
My father shook his head.
“Two thousand, no less. For every two-
decked ship that carries the white ensign there is
a grove the less in England. So how are our
grandsons to beat the French if we do not give
them the trees with which to build their ships?”
He replaced his bag in his pocket, and then,
passing his arm through Troubridge's, they went
through the door together.
“There's a man whose life might help you to
227


RODNEY STONE
trim your own course,” said my father, as we
took our seats at a vacant table. “He is ever
the same quiet gentleman, with his thoughts
busy for the comfort of the ship's company, and
his heart with his wife and children whom he has
so seldom seen. It is said in the fleet that an
oath has never passed his lips, Rodney, though
how he managed when he was first lieutenant of
a raw crew is more than I can conceive. But
they all love Cuddie, for they know he's an an-
gel to fight. How d'ye do, Captain Foley?
My respects, Sir Ed'ard ' Why, if they could
but press the company, they would man a cor-
vette with flag officers.
“There's many a man here, Rodney,” contin-
ued my father, as he glanced about him, “whose
name may never find its way into any book save
his own ship's log, but who in his own way has
set as fine an example as any admiral of them
all. We know them, and talk of them in the
fleet, though they may never be bawled in the
streets of London. There's as much seamanship
and pluck in a good cutter action as in a line-o'-
battle-ship fight, though you may not come by
a title nor the thanks of Parliament for it.
There's Hamilton, for example, the quiet, pale-
faced man who is leaning against the pillar. It
was he who, with six rowing-boats, cut out the
44-gun frigate Hermione from under the muz-
228


THE COFFEE-ROOM OF FLADONG'S
zles of two hundred shore-guns in the harbour
of Puerto Cabello. No finer action was done in
the whole war. There's Jaheel Brenton, with
the whiskers. It was he who attacked twelve
Spanish gunboats in his one little brig, and made
four of them strike to him. There's Walker, of
the Rose cutter, who, with thirteen men, en-
gaged three French privateers with crews of a
hundred and forty-six. He sank one, captured
one, and chased the third. How are you, Cap-
tain Ball? I hope I see you well ?”
Two or three of my father's acquaintances who
had been sitting close by drew up their chairs to
us, and soon quite a circle had formed, all talking
loudly and arguing upon sea matters, shaking
their long, red-tipped pipes at each other as they
spoke. My father whispered in my ear that his
neighbour was Captain Foley, of the Goliath, who
led the van at the Nile, and that the tall, thin,
foxy-haired man opposite was Lord Cochrane,
the most dashing frigate captain in the Ser-
vice. Even at Friar's Oak we had heard how,
in the little Speedy, of fourteen small guns with
fifty-four men, he had carried by boarding the
Spanish frigate Gamo with her crew of three
hundred. It was easy to see that he was a quick,
irascible, high-blooded man, for he was talking
hotly about his grievances with a flush of anger
upon his freckled cheeks.
229


RODNEY STONE
“We shall never do any good upon the ocean
until we have hanged the dockyard contractors,”
he cried. “I'd have a dead dockyard contractor
as a figure-head for every first-rate in the fleet,
and a provision dealer for every frigate. I know
them with their puttied seams and their devil
bolts, risking five hundred lives that they may
steal a few pounds worth of copper. What be-
came of the Chance, and of the Martin, and of
the Orestes? They foundered at sea, and were
never heard of more, and I say that the crews of
them were murdered men.”
Lord Cochrane seemed to be expressing the
views of all, for a murmur of assent, with a mut-
ter of hearty, deep-sea curses, ran round the circle.
“Those rascals over yonder manage things
better,” said an old one-eyed captain, with the
blue-and-white riband for St. Vincent peeping
out of his third button-hole. “They sheer away
their heads if they get up to any foolery. Did
ever a vessel come out of Toulon as my 38-gun
frigate did from Plymouth last year, with her
masts rolling about until her shrouds were like
iron bars on one side and hanging in festoons
upon the other? The meanest sloop that ever
sailed out of France would have overmatched
her, and then it would be on me, and not on this
Devonport bungler, that a court-martial would
be called.”
230


THE COFFEE-ROOM OF FLADONG'S
They loved to grumble, those old salts, for as
soon as one had shot off his grievance his neigh-
bour would follow with another, each more bitter
than the last.
“Look at our sails!” cried Captain Foley.
“Put a French and a British ship at anchor to-
gether, and how can you tell which is which?”
“Frenchy has his fore and maintop-gallant
masts about equal,” said my father.
“In the old ships, maybe, but how many of
the new are laid down on the French model?
No, there's no way of telling them at anchor.
But let them hoist sail, and how d'you tell them
then?”
“Frenchy has white sails,” cried several.
“And ours are black and rotten. That's the
difference. No wonder they outsail us when the
wind can blow through our canvas.”
“In the Speedy,” said Cochrane, “the sailcloth
was so thin that, when I made my observation,
I always took my meridian through the foretop-
sail and my horizon through the foresail.”
There was a general laugh at this, and then at
it they all went again, letting off into speech all
those weary broodings and silent troubles which
had rankled during long years of service, for an
iron discipline prevented them from speaking
when their feet were upon their own quarter-
decks. One told of his powder, six pounds of
231


RODNEY STONE
which were needed to throw a ball a thousand
yards. Another cursed the Admiralty Courts,
where a prize goes in as a full-rigged ship and
comes out as a schooner. The old captain spoke
of the promotions by Parliamentary interest
which had put many a youngster into the cap-
tain's cabin when he should have been in the
gun-room. And then they came back to the
difficulty of finding crews for their vessels, and
they all together raised up their voices and
wailed.
“What is the use of building fresh ships,”
cried Foley, “when even with a ten-pound
bounty you can't man the ships that you have
got?”
But Lord Cochrane was on the other side in
this question.
“You’d have the men, sir, if you treated them
well when you got them,” said he. “Admiral
Nelson can get his ships manned. So can Ad-
miral Collingwood. Why? Because he has
thought for the men, and so the men have
thought for him. Let men and officers know
and respect each other, and there's no difficulty
in keeping a ship's company. It's the infernal
plan of turning a crew over from ship to ship and
leaving the officers behind that rots the Navy.
But I have never found a difficulty, and I dare
swear that if I hoist my pennant to-morrow I
- 232


THE COFFEE-ROOM OF FLADONG'S
shall have all my old Speedies back, and as many
volunteers as I care to take.”
“That is very well, my lord,” said the old cap-
tain, with some warmth; “when the Jacks hear
that the Speedy took fifty vessels in thirteen
months, they are sure to volunteer to serve with
her commander. Every good cruiser can fill her
complement quickly enough. But it is not the
cruisers that fight the country's battles and block-
ade the enemy's ports. I say that all prize-
money should be divided equally among the
whole fleet, and until you have such a rule, the
smartest men will always be found where they
are of least service to any one but themselves.”
This speech produced a chorus of protests
from the cruiser officers and a hearty agreement
from the line-of-battle-ship men, who seemed
to be in the majority in the circle which had
gathered round. From the flushed faces and
angry glances it was evident that the question
was one upon which there was strong feeling
upon both sides.
“What the cruiser gets the cruiser earns,” cried
a frigate captain.
“Do you mean to say, sir,” said Captain Foley,
“that the duties of an officer upon a cruiser de-
mand more care or higher professional ability
than those of one who is employed upon block-
ade service, with a lee coast under him whenever
233


RODNEY STONE
the wind shifts to the west, and the topmasts of
an enemy's squadron forever in his sight?”
“I do not claim higher ability, sir.”
“Then why should you claim higher pay?
Can you deny that a seaman before the mast
makes more in a fast frigate than a lieutenant
can in a battle-ship?”
“It was only last year,” said a very gentle-
manly-looking officer, who might have passed for
a buck upon town had his skin not been burned
to copper in such sunshine as never bursts upon
London—“it was only last year that I brought
the old Alexander back from the Mediterranean,
floating like an empty barrel and carrying noth-
ing but honour for her cargo. In the Channel
we fell in with the frigate Minerva from the
Western Ocean, with her lee ports under water
and her hatches bursting with the plunder which
had been too valuable to trust to the prize crews.
She had ingots of silver along her yards and
bowsprit, and a bit of silver plate at the truck
of the masts. My Jacks could have fired into
her, and would, too, if they had not been held
back. It made them mad to think of all they
had done in the south, and then to see this
saucy frigate flashing her money before their
eyes.”
“I cannot see their grievance, Captain Ball,”
said Cochrane.
234


THE COFFEE-ROOM OF FLADONG'S
_-
“When you are promoted to a two-decker,
my lord, it will possibly become clearer to
you.”
“You speak as if a cruiser had nothing to do
but take prizes. If that is your view, you will
permit me to say that you know very little of
the matter. I have handled a sloop, a corvette,
and a frigate, and I have found a great variety
of duties in each of them. I have had to avoid
the enemy's battle-ships and to fight his cruisers.
I have had to chase and capture his privateers,
and to cut them out when they run under his
batteries. I have had to engage his forts, to take
my men ashore, and to destroy his guns and his
signal stations. All this, with convoying, recon-
noitring, and risking one's own ship in order to
gain a knowledge of the enemy's movements,
comes under the duties of the commander of a
cruiser. I make bold to say that the man who
can carry these objects out with success has de-
served better of the country than the officer of a
battle-ship, tacking from Ushant to the Black
Rocks and back again until she builds up a reef
with her beef-bones.”
“Sir,” said the angry old sailor, “such an of-
ficer is at least in no danger of being mistaken
for a privateersman.”
“I am surprised, Captain Bulkeley,” Cochrane
retorted hotly, “that you should venture to
16 235


RODNEY STONE
couple the names of privateersman and King's
Officer.”
There was mischief brewing among these hot-
headed, short-spoken salts, but Captain Foley
changed the subject to discuss the new ships
which were being built in the French ports. It
was of interest to me to hear these men, who
were spending their lives in fighting against our
neighbours, discussing their character and ways.
You cannot conceive—you who live in times of
peace and charity—how fierce the hatred was in
England at that time against the French, and
above all against their great leader. It was more
than a mere prejudice or dislike. It was a deep,
aggressive loathing of which you may even now
form some conception if you examine the papers
or caricatures of the day. The word “French-
man” was hardly spoken without “rascal” or
“scoundrel” slipping in before it. In all ranks
of life and in every part of the country the feel-
ing was the same. Even the Jacks aboard our
ships fought with a viciousness against a French
vessel which they would never show to Dane,
Dutchman, or Spaniard.
If you ask me now, after fifty years, why it
was that there should have been this virulent
feeling against them, so foreign to the easy-going
and tolerant British nature, I would confess that
I think the real reason was fear. Not fear of
236


THE COFFEE-ROOM OF FLADONG'S
them individually, of course—our foulest detrac-
tors have never called us faint-hearted—but fear
of their star, fear of their future, fear of the sub-
tle brain whose plans always seemed to go aright,
and of the heavy hand which had struck nation
after nation to the ground. We were but a
small country, with a population which, when
the war began, was not much more than half
that of France. And then, France had increased
by leaps and bounds, reaching out to the north
into Belgium and Holland, and to the south into
Italy, whilst we were weakened by deep-lying
disaffection among both Catholics and Presby-
terians in Ireland. The danger was imminent
and plain to the least thoughtful. One could
not walk the Kent coast without seeing the bea-
cons heaped up to tell the country of the ene-
my's landing, and if the sun were shining on the
uplands near Boulogne, one might catch the
flash of its gleam upon the bayonets of manoeu-
vring veterans. No wonder that a fear of the
French power lay deeply in the hearts of the
most gallant men, and that fear should, as it al-
ways does, beget a bitter and rancorous hatred.
The seamen did not speak kindly then of their
recent enemies. Their hearts loathed them, and
in the fashion of our country their lips said what
the heart felt. Of the French officers they could
not have spoken with more chivalry, as of worthy
237


RODNEY STONE
foemen, but the nation was an abomination to
them. The older men had fought against them
in the American War, they had fought again for
the last ten years, and the dearest wish of their
hearts seemed to be that they might be called
upon to do the same for the remainder of their
days. Yet if I was surprised by the virulence of
their animosity against the French, I was even
more so to hear how highly they rated them as
antagonists. The long succession of British vic-
tories which had finally made the French take to
their ports and resign the struggle in despair had
given all of us the idea that for some reason a
Briton on the water must, in the nature of things,
always have the best of it against a Frenchman.
But these men who had done the fighting did
not think so. They were loud in their praise of
their foeman's gallantry, and precise in their
reasons for his defeat. They showed how the
officers of the old French Navy had nearly all
been aristocrats. How the Revolution had
swept them out of their ships, and the force
been left with insubordinate seamen and no com-
petent leaders. This ill-directed fleet had been
hustled into port by the pressure of the well-
manned and well-commanded British, who had
pinned them there ever since, so that they had
never had an opportunity of learning seaman-
ship. Their harbour drill and their harbour gun-
238


THE COFFEE-ROOM OF FLADONG'S
nery had been of no service when sails had to be
trimmed and broadsides fired on the heave of an
Atlantic swell. Let one of their frigates get to
sea and have a couple of years free run in which
the crew might learn their duties, and then it
would be a feather in the cap of a British officer
if with a ship of equal force he could bring down
her colours.
Such were the views of these experienced
officers, fortified by many reminiscences and ex-
amples of French gallantry, such as the way in
which the crew of the L'Orient had fought her
quarter-deck guns when the main-deck was in a
blaze beneath them, and when they must have
known that they were standing over an explod-
ing magazine. The general hope was that the
West Indian expedition since the peace might
have given many of their fleet an ocean training,
and that they might be tempted out into mid-
Channel if the war were to break out afresh.
But would it break out afresh : We had spent
gigantic sums and made enormous exertions to
curb the power of Napoleon and to prevent him
from becoming the universal despot of Europe.
Would the Government try it again? Or
were they appalled by the gigantic load of
debt which must bend the backs of many
generations unborn? Pitt was there, and surely
he was not a man to leave his work half done.
239


THE COFFEE-ROOM OF FLADONG'S
He may have had more to say, but his audi-
ence could wait no longer. How they shouted
and stamped and raved in their delight! Harsh
old flag-officers, grave post-captains, young lieu-
tenants, all were roaring like schoolboys break-
ing up for the holidays. There was no thought
now of those manifold and weary grievances to
which I had listened. The foul weather was
passed, and the landlocked sea-birds would be
out on the foam once more. The rhythm of
“God Save the King” swelled through the
babel, and I heard the old lines sung in a way
that made you forget their bad rhymes and their
bald sentiments. I trust that you will never
hear them so sung, with tears upon rugged
cheeks, and catchings of the breath from strong
men. Dark days will have come again before
you hear such a song or see such a sight as that.
Let those talk of the phlegm of our countrymen
who have never seen them when the lava crust
of restraint is broken, and when for an instant
the strong, enduring fires of the North glow
upon the surface. I saw them then, and if I do
not see them now, I am not so old or so foolish
as to doubt that they are there.
241


CHAPTER XIII
LORD NELSON
MY father's appointment with Lord Nelson was
an early one, and he was the more anxious to be
punctual as he knew how much the Admiral's
movements must be affected by the news which
we had heard the night before. I had hardly
breakfasted then, and my uncle had not rung for
his chocolate, when he called for me at Jermyn
Street. A walk of a few hundred yards brought
us to the high building of discoloured brick in
Piccadilly, which served the Hamiltons as a
town house, and which Nelson used as his head-
quarters when business or pleasure called him
from Merton. A footman answered our knock,
and we were ushered into a large drawing-room
with sombre furniture and melancholy curtains.
My father sent in his name, and there we sat,
looking at the white Italian statuettes in the cor-
ners, and the picture of Vesuvius and the Bay of
Naples which hung over the harpsichord. I can
remember that a black clock was ticking loudly
upon the mantelpiece, and that every now and
then, amid the rumble of the hackney coaches,
242


RODNEY STONE
“I have seen your ladyship at Naples.”
“Then you have doubtless seen my poor Sir
William also—my poor, poor Sir William !”
She touched her dress with her white, ring-cov-
ered fingers, as if to draw our attention to the
fact that she was in the deepest mourning.
“I heard of your ladyship's sad loss,” said my
father.
“We died together,” she cried. “What can
my life be now save a long-drawn living death?”
She spoke in a beautiful, rich voice, with the
most heart-broken thrill in it, but I could not
conceal from myself that she appeared to be one
of the most robust persons that I had ever seen,
and I was surprised to notice that she shot arch
little questioning glances at me, as if the admira-
tion even of so insignificant a person were of
some interest to her. My father, in his blunt,
sailor fashion, tried to stammer out some com-
monplace condolence, but her eyes swept past
his rude, weather-beaten face to ask and reask
what effect she had made upon me.
“There he hangs, the tutelary angel of this
house,” she cried, pointing with a grand sweep-
ing gesture to a painting upon the wall, which
represented a very thin-faced, high-nosed gentle-
man with several orders upon his coat. “But
enough of my private sorrow !” She dashed
invisible tears from her eyes. “You have come
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LORD NELSON
to see Lord Nelson. He bid me say that he
would be with you in an instant. You have
doubtless heard that hostilities are about to
reopen?”
“We heard the news last night.”
“Lord Nelson is under orders to take com-
mand of the Mediterranean Fleet. You can
think at such a moment But, ah, is it not
his lordship's step that I hear?”
My attention was so riveted by the lady's
curious manner and by the gestures and atti-
tudes with which she accompanied every remark,
that I did not see the great admiral enter the
room. When I turned he was standing close by
my elbow, a small, brown man with the lithe,
slim figure of a boy. He was not clad in uni-
form, but he wore a high-collared brown coat,
with the right sleeve hanging limp and empty
by his side. The expression of his face was, as
I remember it, exceedingly sad and gentle, with
the deep lines upon it which told of the chafing
of his urgent and fiery soul. One eye was dis-
figured and sightless from a wound, but the
other looked from my father to myself with the
quickest and shrewdest of expressions. Indeed,
his whole manner, with his short, sharp glance
and the fine poise of the head, spoke of energy
and alertness, so that he reminded me, if I may
compare great things with small, of a well-bred


RODNEY STONE
fighting terrier, gentle and slim, but keen and
ready for whatever chance might send.
“Why, Lieutenant Stone,” said he, with great
cordiality, holding out his left hand to my father,
“I am very glad to see you. London is full of
Mediterranean men, but I trust that in a week
there will not be an officer amongst you all with
his feet on dry land.”
“I had come to ask you, sir, if you could
assist me to a ship.”
“You shall have one, Stone, if my word goes
for anything at the Admiralty. I shall want all
my old Nile men at my back. I cannot promise
you a first-rate, but at least it shall be a 64-gun
ship, and I can tell you that there is much to
be done with a handy, well-manned, well-found
64-gun ship."
“Who could doubt it who has heard of the Aga-
memnon?” cried Lady Hamilton, and straightway
she began to talk of the admiral and of his doings
with such extravagance of praise and such a
shower of compliments and of epithets, that my
father and I did not know which way to look,
feeling shame and sorrow for a man who was
compelled to listen to such things said in his own
presence. But when I ventured to glance at
Lord Nelson I found, to my surprise, that, far
from showing any embarrassment, he was Smiling
with pleasure, as if this gross flattery of her lady-
246


LORD NELSON
ship's were the dearest thing in all the world to
him.
“Come, come, my dear lady,” said he, “you
speak vastly beyond my merits;” upon which
encouragement she started again in a theatrical
apostrophe to Britain's darling and Neptune's
eldest son, which he endured with the same signs
of gratitude and pleasure. That a man of the
world, five-and-forty years of age, shrewd, honest,
and acquainted with Courts, should be beguiled
by such crude and coarse homage, amazed me,
as it did all who knew him; but you who have
seen much of life do not need to be told how
often the strongest and noblest nature has its
one inexplicable weakness, showing up the more
obviously in contrast to the rest, as the dark
stain looks the fouler upon the whitest sheet.
“You are a sea-officer of my own heart, Stone,”
said he, when her ladyship had exhausted her
panegyric. “You are one of the old breed !”
He walked up and down the room with little,
impatient steps as he talked, turning with a
whisk upon his heel every now and then, as if
some invisible rail had brought him up. “We
are getting too fine for our work with these new-
fangled epaulettes and quarter-deck trimmings.
When I joined the Service, you would find a
lieutenant gammoning and rigging his own bow-
sprit, or aloft, maybe, with a marlinspike slung
247


RODNEY STONE
round his neck, showing an example to his men.
Now, it's as much as he'll do to carry his own
sextant up the companion. When could you
join?”
“To-night, my lord.”
“Right, Stone, right! That is the true spirit.
They are working double tides in the yards, but
I do not know when the ships will be ready. I
hoist my flag on the Victory on Wednesday, and
we sail at once.”
“No, no; not so soon! She cannot be ready
for sea,” said Lady Hamilton, in a wailing voice,
clasping her hands and turning up her eyes as
she spoke.
“She must and she shall be ready,” cried
Nelson, with extraordinary vehemence. “By
Heaven l if the devil stands at the door, I sail
on Wednesday. Who knows what these rascals
may be doing in my absence? It maddens me
to think of the deviltries which they may be de-
vising. At this very instant, dear lady, the
Queen, our Queen, may be straining her eyes
for the topsails of Nelson's ships.”
Thinking, as I did, that he was speaking of
our own old Queen Charlotte, I could make no
meaning out of this; but my father told me
afterwards that both Nelson and Lady Hamilton
had conceived an extraordinary affection for the
Queen of Naples, and that it was the interests of
248


LORD NELSON
her little kingdom which he had so strenuously
at heart. It may have been my expression of
bewilderment which attracted Nelson's attention
to me, for he suddenly stopped in his quick
quarter-deck walk, and looked me up and down
with a severe eye.
“Well, young gentleman l” said he, sharply.
“This is my only son, sir,” said my father.
“It is my wish that he should join the Service,
if a berth can be found for him; for we have all
been King's officers for many generations.”
“So, you wish to come and have your bones
broken?” cried Nelson, roughly, looking with
much disfavour at the fine clothes which had
cost my uncle and Mr. Brummell such a debate.
“You will have to change that grand coat for a
tarry jacket if you serve under me, sir.”
I was so embarrassed by the abruptness of his
manner that I could but stammer out that I
hoped I should do my duty, on which his stern
mouth relaxed into a good-humoured smile, and
he laid his little brown hand for an instant upon
my shoulder.
“I dare say that you will do very well,” said
he. “I can see that you have the stuff in you.
But do not imagine that it is a light service
which you undertake, young gentleman, when
you enter His Majesty's Navy. It is a hard pro-
fession. You hear of the few who succeed, but
249


RODNEY STONE
what do you know of the hundreds who never
find their way? Look at my own luck! Out
of 200 who were with me in the San Juan expe-
dition, 145 died in a single night. I have been
in 180 engagements, and I have, as you see, lost
my eye and my arm, and been sorely wounded
besides. It chanced that I came through, and
here I am flying my admiral's flag; but I re-
member many a man as good as me who did not
come through. Yes,” he added, as her ladyship
broke in with a voluble protest, “many and
many as good a man who has gone to the sharks
or the land-crabs. But it is a useless sailor who
does not risk himself every day, and the lives of
all of us are in the hands of Him who best knows
when to claim them.”
For an instant, in his earnest gaze and reverent
manner, we seemed to catch a glimpse of the
deeper, truer Nelson, the man of the Eastern
counties, steeped in the virile Puritanism which
sent from that district the Ironsides to fashion
England within, and the Pilgrim Fathers to
spread it without. Here was the Nelson who
declared that he saw the hand of God pressing
upon the French, and who waited on his knees
in the cabin of his flag-ship while she bore down
upon the enemy's line. There was a human ten-
derness, too, in his way of speaking of his dead
comrades, which made me understand why it
250


LORD NELSON
was that he was so beloved by all who served
with him, for, iron-hard as he was as seaman and
fighter, there ran through his complex nature a
sweet and un-English power of affectionate emo-
tion, showing itself in tears if he were moved,
and in such tender impulses as led him after-
wards to ask his flag-captain to kiss him as he
lay dying in the cockpit of the Victory.
My father had risen to depart, but the admiral,
with that kindliness which he ever showed to the
young, and which had been momentarily chilled
by the unfortunate splendour of my clothes, still
paced up and down in front of us, shooting out
crisp little sentences of exhortation and advice.
“It is ardour that we need in the Service,
young gentleman,” said he. “We need red-hot
men who will never rest satisfied. We had them
in the Mediterranean, and we shall have them
again. There was a band of brothers | When I
was asked to recommend one for special service,
I told the Admiralty they might take the names
as they came, for the same spirit animated them
all. Had we taken nineteen vessels, we should
never have said it was well done while the
twentieth sailed the seas. You know how it
was with us, Stone. You are too old a Mediter-
ranean man for me to tell you anything.”
“I trust, my lord, that I shall be with you
when next we meet them,” said my father.
17 251


RODNEY STONE
“Meet them we shall and must. By Heaven,
I shall never rest until I have given them a
shaking. The scoundrel Buonaparte wishes to
humble us. Let him try, and God help the
better cause !”
He spoke with such extraordinary animation
that the empty sleeve flapped about in the air,
giving him the strangest appearance. Seeing
my eyes fixed upon it, he turned with a smile to
my father.
“I can still work my fin, Stone,” said he, put-
ting his hand across to the stump of his arm.
“What used they to say in the fleet about it?”
“That it was a sign, sir, that it was a bad hour
to cross your hawse.”
“They knew me, the rascals. You can see,
young gentleman, that not a scrap of the ardour
with which I serve my country has been shot
away. Some day you may find that you are
flying your own flag, and when that time comes
you may remember that my advice to an officer
is that he should have nothing to do with tame,
slow measures. Lay all your stake, and if you
lose through no fault of your own, the country
will find you another stake as large. Never
mind manoeuvres ! Go for them ! The only
manoeuvre you need is that which will place you
alongside your enemy. Always fight, and you
will always be right. Give not a thought to your
252


LORD NELSON
it:
own ease or your own life, for from the day that
you draw the blue coat over your back you
have no life of your own. It is the country's,
to be most freely spent if the smallest gain can
come from it. How is the wind this morning,
Stone?”
“East-south-east,” my father answered, read.
ily.
“Then Cornwallis is, doubtless, keeping well
up to Brest, though, for my own part, I had
rather tempt them out into the open sea.”
“That is what every officer and man in the
fleet would prefer, your lordship,” said my father.
“They do not love the blockading service, and it
is little wonder, since neither money nor honour
is to be gained at it. You can remember how it
was in the winter months before Toulon, Stone,
when we had neither firing, wine, beef, pork, nor
flour aboard the ships, nor a spare piece of rope,
canvas, or twine. We braced the old hulks with
our spare cables, and God knows there was never
a Levanter that I did not expect it to send us to
the bottom. But we held our grip all the same.
Yet I fear that we do not get much credit for it
here in England, Stone, where they light the
windows for a great battle, but they do not
understand that it is easier for us to fight the
Nile six times over, than to keep our station all
winter in the blockade. But I pray God that
253


RODNEY STONE
we may meet this new fleet of theirs and settle
the matter by a pell-mell battle.”
“May I be with you, my lord l” said my
father, earnestly. “But we have already taken
too much of your time, and so I beg to thank
you for your kindness and to wish you good
morning.”
“Good morning, Stone !” said Nelson. “You
shall have your ship, and if I can make this
young gentleman one of my officers it shall be
done. But I gather from his dress,” he con-
tinued, running his eye over me, “that you have
been more fortunate in prize-money than most of
your comrades. For my own part, I never did
nor could turn my thoughts to money-making."
My father explained that I had been under the
charge of the famous Sir Charles Tregellis, who
was my uncle, and with whom I was now re-
siding.
“Then you need no help from me,” said Nel.
son, with some bitterness. “If you have either
guineas or interest you can climb over the heads
of old sea-officers, though you may not know the
poop from the galley, or a carronade from a long
nine. Nevertheless But what the deuce
have we here ?”
The footman had suddenly precipitated him.
self into the room, but stood abashed before the
fierce glare of the admiral's eye.
254


LORD NELSON
“Your lordship told me to rush to you if it
should come,” he explained, holding out a large
blue envelope.
“By Heaven, it is my orders l” cried Nelson,
snatching it up and fumbling with it in his awk-
ward, one-handed attempt to break the seals.
Lady Hamilton ran to his assistance, but no
sooner had she glanced at the paper inclosed
than she burst into a shrill scream, and throwing
up her hands and her eyes, she sank backwards in a
swoon. I could not but observe, however, that her
fall was very carefully executed, and that she
was fortunate enough, in spite of her insensibility,
to arrange her drapery and attitude into a grace-
ful and classical design. But he, the honest sea-
man, so incapable of deceit or affectation that he
could not suspect it in others, ran madly to the
bell, shouting for the maid, the doctor, and the
smelling-salts, with incoherent words of grief,
and such passionate terms of emotion that my
father thought it more discreet to twitch me by
the sleeve as a signal that we should steal from
the room. There we left him then in the dim-
lit London drawing-room, beside himself with
pity for this shallow and most artificial woman,
while without, at the edge of the Piccadilly curb,
there stood the high dark berline ready to start
him upon that long journey which was to end in
his chase of the French fleet over seven thousand

255


RODNEY STONE
miles of ocean, his meeting with it, his victory,
which confined Napoleon's ambition for ever to
the land, and his death, coming, as I would it
might come to all of us, at the crowning moment
of his life.
256


CHAPTER XIV
ON THE ROAD
AND now the day of the great fight began to
approach. Even the imminent outbreak of war
and the renewed threats of Napoleon were sec-
ondary things in the eyes of the sportsmen—and
the sportsmen in those days made a large half
of the population. In the club of the patrician
and the plebeian gin-shop, in the coffee-house of
the merchant or the barrack of the soldier, in
London or the provinces, the same question was
interesting the whole nation. Every west-coun-
try coach brought up word of the fine condition
of Crab Wilson, who had returned to his own
native air for his training, and was known to be
under the immediate care of Captain Barclay,
the expert. On the other hand, although my
uncle had not yet named his man, there was no
doubt amongst the public that Jim was to be his
nominee, and the report of his physique and of
his performance found him many backers. On
the whole, however, the betting was in favour of
Wilson, for Bristol and the west country stood
by him to a man, whilst London opinion was
divided. Three to two were to be had on Wil-
257


RODNEY STONE
son at any West End club two days before the
battle.
I had twice been down to Crawley to see Jim
in his training quarters, where I found him un-
dergoing the severe regimen which was usual.
From early dawn until nightfall he was running,
jumping, striking a bladder which swung upon a
bar, or sparring with his formidable trainer. His
eyes shone and his skin glowed with exuberant
health, and he was so confident of success that
my own misgivings vanished as I watched his
gallant bearing and listened to his quiet and
cheerful words.
“But I wonder that you should come and see
me now, Rodney,” said he, when we parted, try-
ing to laugh as he spoke. “I have become a
bruiser and your uncle's paid man, whilst you
are a Corinthian upon town. If you had not
been the best and truest little gentleman in the
world, you would have been my patron instead
of my friend before now.”
When I looked at this splendid fellow, with
his high-bred, clean-cut face, and thought of the
fine qualities and gentle, generous impulses
which I knew to lie within him, it seemed so
absurd that he should speak as though my
friendship towards him were a condescension,
that I could not help laughing aloud.
“That is all very well, Rodney,” said he, look-
258


ON THE ROAD
fellow took to books, and lived and died in a
country vicarage. He was a good man, but he
was commonplace, and there is no place in so-
ciety for commonplace people.”
“Then I fear, sir, that there is none for me,”
said I. “But my father has every hope that
Lord Nelson will find me a position in the fleet.
If I have been a failure in town, I am none the
less conscious of your kindness in trying to ad-
vance my interests, and I hope that, should I
receive my commission, I may be a credit to you
yet.”
“It is possible that you may attain the very
spot which I had marked out for you, but by
another road,” said my uncle. “There are many
men in town, such as Lord St. Vincent, Lord
Hood, and others, who move in the most re-
spectable circles, although they have nothing but
their services in the Navy to recommend them.”
It was on the afternoon of the day before the
fight that this conversation took place between
my uncle and myself in the dainty sanctum of
his Jermyn-Street house. He was clad, I re-
member, in his flowing brocade dressing-gown,
as was his custom before he set off for his club,
and his foot was extended upon a stool—for
Abernethy had just been in to treat him for an
incipient attack of the gout. It may have been
the pain, or it may have been his disappointment
261


RODNEY STONE
at my career, but his manner was more testy
than was usual with him, and I fear that there
was something of a sneer in his smile as he spoke
of my deficiencies. For my own part I was re-
lieved at the explanation, for my father had left
London in the full conviction that a vacancy
would speedily be found for us both, and the one
thing which had weighed upon my mind was
that I might have found it hard to leave my un-
cle without interfering with the plans which he
had formed. I was heart-weary of this empty
life, for which I was so ill-fashioned, and weary
also of that intolerant talk which would make a
coterie of frivolous women and foolish fops the
central point of the universe. Something of my
uncle's sneer may have flickered upon my lips as
I heard him allude with supercilious surprise to
the presence in those sacrosanct circles of the
men who had stood between the country and de-
struction.
“By the way, nephew,” said he, “gout or no
gout, and whether Abernethy likes it or not, we
must be down at Crawley to-night. The battle
will take place upon Crawley Downs. Sir Lo-
thian Hume and his man are at Reigate. I have
reserved beds at the George for both of us. The
crush will, it is said, exceed anything ever known.
The smell of these country inns is always most
offensive to me—mais que voulez-vous? Berke-
262


ON THE ROAD
ley Craven was saying in the club last night that
there is not a bed within twenty miles of Craw-
ley which is not bespoke, and that they are
charging three guineas for the night. I hope
that your young friend, if I must describe him as
such, will fulfil the promise which he has shown,
for I have rather more upon the event than I
care to lose. Sir Lothian has been plunging also
—he made a single bye-bet of five thousand to
three upon Wilson in Limmer's yesterday. From
what I hear of his affairs it will be a serious
matter for him if we should pull it off. Well,
Lorimer ?”
“A person to see you, Sir Charles,” said the
new valet.
“You know that I never see any one until my
dressing is complete.”
“He insists upon seeing you, sir. He pushed
open the door.”
“Pushed it open I What d'you mean, Lori-
mer? Why didn't you put him out?”
A smile passed over the servant's face. At
the same moment there came a deep voice from
the passage.
“You show me in this instant, young man,
d'ye ’ear? Let me see your master, or it'll be
the worse for you.”
I thought that I had heard the voice before,
but when, over the shoulder of the valet, I caught
263


RODNEY STONE
a glimpse of a large, fleshy, bull-face, with a flat-
tened Michael Angelo nose in the centre of it, I
knew at once that it was my neighbour at the
supper party.
“It's Warr, the prize-fighter, sir,” said I.
“Yes, sir,” said our visitor, pushing his huge
form into the room. “It's Bill Warr, landlord
of the One Tun public-'ouse, Jermyn Street, and
the gamest man upon the list. There's only one
thing that ever beat me, Sir Charles, and that
was my flesh, which creeps over me that amazin'
fast that I’ve always got four stone that 'as no
business there. Why, sir, I’ve got enough to
spare to make a feather-weight champion out of
You'd 'ardly think, to look at me, that even after
Mendoza fought me I was able to jump the
four-foot ropes at the ring-side just as light as
a little kiddy; but if I was to chuck my castor
into the ring now I'd never get it till the wind
blew it out again, for blow my dicky if I could
climb after. My respec's to you, young sir, and
I'ope I see you well.”
My uncle's face had expressed considerable
disgust at this invasion of his privacy, but it was
part of his position to be on good terms with the
fighting-men, so he contented himself with ask-
ing curtly what business had brought him there.
For answer the huge prize-fighter looked mean-
ingly at the valet. 264


ON THE ROAD
“It's important, Sir Charles, and between
man and man,” said he.
“You may go, Lorimer. Now, Warr, what
is the matter ?”
The bruiser very calmly seated himself astride
of a chair with his arms resting upon the back
of it.
“I’ve got information, Sir Charles,” said he.
“Well, what is it?” cried my uncle, impa-
tiently.
“Information of value.”
“Out with it, then l’’
“Information that's worth money,” said
Warr, and pursed up his lips.
“I see. You want to be paid for what you
know?”
The prize-fighter smiled an affirmative.
“Well, I don't buy things on trust. You
should know me better than to try on such a
game with me.”
“I know you for what you are, Sir Charles,
and that is a noble, slap-up Corinthian. But if
I was to use this against you, dye see, it would
be worth 'undreds in my pocket. But my 'eart
won't let me do it, for Bill Warr's always been
on the side o' good sport and fair play. If I use
it for you, then I expect that you won't see me
the loser.”
“You can do what you like,” said my uncle.
265


RODNEY STONE
“If your news is of service to me, I shall know
how to treat you.”
“You can't say fairer than that. We'll let it
stand there, gov'nor, and you'll do the 'andsome
thing, as you 'ave always 'ad the name for doin'.
Well, then, your man, Jim 'Arrison, fights Crab
Wilson, of Gloucester, at Crawley Down to-
morrow mornin' for a stake.”
“What of that ?”
“Did you 'appen to know what the bettin'
was yesterday?”
“It was three to two on Wilson.”
“Right you are, gov'nor. Three to two was
offered in my own bar-parlour. D'you know
what the bettin' is to-day?”
“I have not been out yet.”
“Then I'll tell you. It's seven to one against
your man.”
“What?”
“Seven to one, gov'nor, no less.”
“You're talking nonsense, Warr ! How
could the betting change from three to two to
seven to One 2"
“I’ve been to Tom Owen's, and I’ve been to
the 'Ole in the Wall, and I’ve been to the Waggon
and'Orses, and you can get seven to one in any of
them. There's tons of money being laid against
your man. It's a 'orse to a 'en in every sportin'
'ouse and boozin ken from 'ere to Stepney.”
266


ON THE ROAD
For a moment the expression upon my uncle's
face made me realize that this match was really
a serious matter to him. Then he shrugged his
shoulders with an incredulous smile.
“All the worse for the fools who give the
odds,” said he. “My man is all right. You
saw him yesterday, nephew’’’
“He was all right yesterday, sir.”
“If anything had gone wrong I should have
heard.”
“But perhaps,” said Warr, “it as not gone
wrong with im yet.”
“What d'you mean?”
“I’ll tell you what I mean, sir. You remem-
ber Berks? You know that 'e ain’t to be over-
much depended on at any time, and that 'e 'ad a
grudge against your man 'cause 'e laid 'im out in
the coach-'ouse. Well, last night about ten
o'clock in 'e comes into my bar, and the three
bloodiest rogues in London at is eels. There
was Red Ike, 'im that was warned off the ring
'cause 'e fought a cross with Bittoon; and there
was Fightin' Yussef, who would sell is mother
for a seven-shillin'-bit; the third was Chris Mc-
Carthy, who is a fogle-snatcher by trade, with
a pitch outside the Aymarket Theatre. You
don’t often see four such beauties together, and
all with as much as they could carry, save only
Chris, who is too leary a cove to drink when
18 267


RODNEY STONE
there's somethin goin' forward. For my part, I
showed 'em into the parlour, not 'cos they was
worthy of it, but 'cos I knew right well they
would start bashin some of my customers, and
maybe get my license into trouble if I left 'em
in the bar. I served 'em with drink, and stayed
with 'em just to see that they didn't lay their
'ands on the stuffed parroquet and the pictures.
“Well, gov'nor, to cut it short, they began
to talk about the fight, and they all laughed at
the idea that young Jim 'Arrison could win it—
all except Chris, and 'e kept a-nudging and a-
twitchin' at the others until Joe Berks nearly
gave him a wipe across the face for is trouble.
I saw somethin' was in the wind, and it wasn't
very 'ard to guess what it was—especially when
Red Ike was ready to put up a fiver that Jim
'Arrison would never fight at all. So I up to
get another bottle of liptrap, and I slipped round
to the shutter that we pass the liquor through
from the private bar into the parlour. I drew
it an inch open, and I might 'ave been at the
table with them, I could 'ear every word that
clearly.
“There was Chris McCarthy growlin' at them
for not keepin' their tongues still, and there was
Joe Berks swearin’ that 'e would knock 'is face
in if 'e dared give 'im any of is lip. So Chris 'e
sort of argued with them, for 'e was frightened
268


ON THE ROAD
*
of Berks, and 'e put it to them whether they
would be fit for the job in the mornin', and
whether the gov'nor would pay the money if 'e
found they 'ad been drinkin’ and were not to be
trusted. This struck them sober, all three, an’
Fighting Yussef asked what time they were to
start. Chris said that as long as they were at
Crawley before the George shut up they could
work it. ‘It’s poor pay for a chance of a rope,’
said Red Ike. ‘Rope be damned !’ cried Chris,
takin a little loaded stick out of his side pocket.
“If three of you 'old him down and I break his
armbone with this, we've earned our money, and
we don't risk more'n six months' jug.’ ‘’E'll
fight, said Berks. ‘Well, it's the only fight 'e'll
get, answered Chris, and that was all I’eard of
it. This mornin’ out I went, and I found as I
told you afore that the money is goin' on to
Wilson by the ton, and that no odds are too
long for the layers. So it stands, gov'nor, and
you know what the meanin' of it may be better
than Bill Warr can tell you.” -
“Very good, Warr,” said my uncle, rising.
“I am very much obliged to you for telling me
this, and I will see that you are not a loser by it.
I put it down as the gossip of drunken ruffians,
but none the less you have served me vastly by
calling my attention to it. I suppose I shall see
you at the Downs to-morrow?”
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RODNEY STONE
“Mr. Jackson as asked me to be one o' the
beaters-out, sir.”
“Very good. I hope that we shall have a fair
and good fight. Good day to you, and thank
you.
My uncle had preserved his jaunty demeanour
as long as Warr was in the room, but the door
had hardly closed upon him before he turned to
me with a face which was more agitated than I
had ever seen it.
“We must be off for Crawley at once, nephew,”
said he, ringing the bell. “There's not a mo-
ment to be lost. Lorimer, order the bays to be
harnessed in the curricle. Put the toilet things
in, and tell William to have it round at the door
as soon as possible.”
“I’ll see to it, sir,” said I, and away I ran to
the mews in Little Ryder Street, where my
uncle stabled his horses. The groom was away,
and I had to send a lad in search of him, while
with the help of the liveryman I dragged the
curricle from the coach-house and brought the
two mares out of their stalls. It was half an
hour, or possibly three-quarters, before every-
thing had been found, and Lorimer was already
waiting in Jermyn Street with the inevitable
baskets, whilst my uncle stood in the open door
of his house, clad in his long fawn-coloured driv-
ing-coat, with no sign upon his calm pale face of
270


ON THE ROAD
the tumult of impatience which must, I was
sure, be raging within.
“We shall leave you, Lorimer,” said he. “We
might find it hard to get a bed for you. Keep at
her head, William I Jump in, nephew. Halloa,
Warr, what is the matter now?”
The prize-fighter was hastening towards us as
fast as his bulk would allow.
“Just one word before you go, Sir Charles,”
he panted. “I’ve just 'eard in my taproom that
the four men I spoke of left for Crawley at one
o'clock.”
“Very good, Warr,” said my uncle, with his
foot upon the step.
“And the odds 'ave risen to ten to one.”
“Let go her head, William l”
“Just one more word, gov'nor. You'll excuse
the liberty, but if I was you I'd take my pistols
with me.”
“Thank you; I have them.”
“The long thong cracked between the ears of
the leader, the groom sprang for the pavement,
and Jermyn Street had changed for St. James's,
and that again for Whitehall with a swiftness
which showed that the gallant mares were as
impatient as their master. It was half-past four
by the Parliament clock as we flew on to West-
minster Bridge. There was the flash of water
beneath us, and then we were between those
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RODNEY STONE
two long dun-coloured lines of houses which had
been the avenue which had led us to London.
My uncle sat with tightened lips and a brooding
brow. We had reached Streatham before he
broke the silence.
“I have a good deal at stake, nephew," said
he.
“So have I, sir,” I answered.
“You !” he cried, in surprise.
“My friend, sir.”
“Ah, yes, I had forgot. You have some ec-
centricities, after all, nephew. You are a faith-
ful friend, which is a rare enough thing in our
circles. I never had but one friend of my own
position, and he—but you've heard me tell the
story. I fear it will be dark before we reach
Crawley.”
“I fear that it will.”
“In that case we may be too late.”
“Pray God not, sir!”
“We sit behind the best cattle in England,
but I fear lest we find the roads blocked before
we get to Crawley. Did you observe, nephew,
that these four villains spoke in Warr's hearing
of the master who was behind them, and who
was paying them for their infamy? Did you
not understand that they were hired to cripple
my man? Who, then, could have hired them?
Who had an interest unless it was I know
272


ON THE ROAD
Sir Lothian Hume to be a desperate man. I
know that he has had heavy card losses at
Watier's and White's. I know also that he has
much at stake upon this event, and that he has
plunged upon it with a rashness which made his
friends think that he had some private reason
for being satisfied as to the result. By Heaven,
it all hangs together! If it should be so—!”
He relapsed into silence, but I saw the same
look of cold fierceness settle upon his features
which I had marked there when he and Sir John
Lade had raced wheel to wheel down the God-
stone road.
The sun sank slowly towards the low Surrey
hills, and the shadows crept steadily eastwards,
but the whirr of the wheels and the roar of the
hoofs never slackened. A fresh wind blew upon
our faces, while the young leavesdrooped motion-
less from the wayside branches. The golden
edge of the sun was just sinking behind the oaks
of Reigate Hill when the dripping mares drew
up before the Crown at Redhill. The landlord,
an old sportsman and ringsider, ran out to greet
so well-known a Corinthian as Sir Charles
Tregellis.
“You know Berks, the bruiser?” asked my
uncle.
“Yes, Sir Charles.”
“Has he passed?”
273


RODNEY STONE
“Yes, Sir Charles. It may have been about
four o'clock, though with this crowd of folk and
carriages it's hard to swear to it. There was
him, and Red Ike, and Fighting Yussef the Jew,
and another, with a good bit of blood betwixt
the shafts. They'd been driving her hard, too,
for she was all in a lather.”
“That's ugly, nephew,” said my uncle, when
we were flying onwards towards Reigate. “If
they drove so hard, it looks as though they
wished to get early to work.”
“Jim and Belcher would surely be a match
for the four of them,” I suggested.
“If Belcher were with him I should have no
fear. But you cannot tell what diablerie they
may be up to. Let us only find him safe and
sound, and I'll never lose sight of him until I see
him in the ring. We'll sit up on guard with our
pistols, nephew, and I only trust that these
villains may be indiscreet enough to attempt it.
But they must have been very sure of success
before they put the odds up to such a figure, and
it is that which alarms me.”
“But surely they have nothing to win by such
villainy, sir? If they were to hurt Jim Harrison
the battle could not be fought, and the bets
would not be decided.”
“So it would be in an ordinary prize-battle,
nephew; and it is fortunate that it should be so,
274


ON THE ROAD
or the rascals who infest the ring would soon
make all sport impossible. But here it is differ-
ent. On the terms of the wager I lose unless I
can produce a man, within the prescribed ages,
who can beat Crab Wilson. You must remem-
ber that I have never named my man. C'est
dommage, but so it is ! We know who it is and
so do our opponents, but the referees and stake-
holder would take no notice of that. If we
complain that Jim Harrison has been crippled,
they would answer that they have no official
knowledge that Jim Harrison was our nominee.
It's play or pay, and the villains are taking
advantage of it.”
My uncle's fears as to our being blocked upon
the road were only too well founded, for after
we passed Reigate there was such a procession of
every sort of vehicle, that I believe for the whole
eight miles there was not a horse whose nose was
further than a few feet from the back of the cur-
ricle or barouche in front. Every road leading
from London, as well as those from Guildford in
the west and Tunbridge in the east, had contrib-
uted their stream of four-in-hands, gigs, and
mounted sportsmen, until the whole broad
Brighton highway was choked from ditch to
ditch with a laughing, singing, shouting throng,
all flowing in the same direction. No man who
looked upon that motley crowd could deny that,
275


RODNEY STONE
for good or evil, the love of the ring was confined
to no class, but was a national peculiarity, deeply
seated in the English nature, and a common
heritage of the young aristocrat in his drag and
of the rough costers sitting six deep in their
pony cart. There I saw statesmen and soldiers,
noblemen and lawyers, farmers and squires, with
roughs of the East End and yokels of the shires,
all toiling along with the prospect of a night of
discomfort before them, on the chance of seeing
a fight which might, for all that they knew, be
decided in a single round. A more cheery and
hearty set of people could not be imagined, and
the chaff flew about as thick as the dust clouds,
while at every wayside inn the landlord and the
drawers would be out with trays of foam-headed
tankards to moisten those importunate throats.
The ale-drinking, the rude good-fellowship, the
heartiness, the laughter at discomforts, the crav-
ing to see the fight—all these may be set down
as vulgar and trivial by those to whom they are
distasteful; but to me, listening to the far-off
and uncertain echoes of our distant past, they
seem to have been the very bones upon which
much that is most solid and virile in this ancient
race was moulded.
But, alas for our chance of hastening onwards!
Even my uncle's skill could not pick a passage
through that moving mass. We could but fall
276


ON THE ROAD
into our places and be content to snail along
from Reigate to Horley and on to Povey Cross
and over Lowfield Heath, while day shaded
away into twilight, and that deepened into night.
At Kimberham Bridge the carriage-lamps were
all lit, and it was wonderful, where the road
curved downwards before us, to see this writhing
serpent with the golden scales crawling before us
in the darkness. And then, at last, we saw the
formless mass of the huge Crawley elm looming
before us in the gloom, and there was the broad
village street with the glimmer of the cottage
windows, and the high front of the old George
Inn, glowing from every door and pane and
crevice, in honour of the noble company who
were to sleep within that night.
277


CHAPTER XV
FOUL PLAY
MY uncle's impatience would not suffer him to
wait for the slow rotation which would bring us
to the door, but he flung the reins and a crown-
piece to one of the rough fellows who thronged
the side-walk, and pushing his way vigorously
through the crowd, he made for the entrance.
As he came within the circle of light thrown by
the windows, a whisper ran round as to who this
masterful gentleman with the pale face and the
driving-coat might be, and a lane was formed to
admit us. I had never before understood the
popularity of my uncle in the sporting world, for
the folk began to huzza as we passed with cries
of “Hurrah for Buck Tregellis ! Good luck to
you and your man, Sir Charles ! Clear a path
for a bang-up noble Corinthian l” whilst the
landlord, attracted by the shouting, came run-
ning out to greet us.
“Good evening, Sir Charles !” he cried. “I
hope I see you well, sir, and I trust that you
will find that your man does credit to the
George.”
“How is he?” asked my uncle, quickly.
278


FOUL PLAY
“Never better, sir. Looks a picture, he does
—and fit to fight for a kingdom.”
My uncle gave a sigh of relief.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“He’s gone to his room early, sir, seein’ that
he had some very partic'lar business to-morrow
mornin',” said the landlord, grinning.
“Where is Belcher?”
“Here he is, in the bar-parlour.”
He opened a door as he spoke, and looking in
we saw a score of well-dressed men, some of
whose faces had become familiar to me during
my short West End career, seated round a table
upon which stood a steaming soup-tureen filled
with punch. At the further end, very much at
his ease amongst the aristocrats and exquisites
who surrounded him, sat the Champion of Eng-
land, his superb figure thrown back in his chair,
a flush upon his handsome face, and a loose red
handkerchief knotted carelessly round his throat
in the picturesque fashion which was long known
by his name. Half a century has passed since
then, and I have seen my share of fine men.
Perhaps it is because I am a slight creature my-
self, but it is my peculiarity that I had rather
look upon a splendid man than upon any work
of Nature. Yet during all that time I have
never seen a finer man than Jim Belcher, and if
I wish to match him in my memory, I can only
279


RODNEY STONE
turn to that other Jim whose fate and fortunes
I am trying to lay before you.
There was a shout of jovial greeting when my
uncle's face was seen in the doorway.
“Come in, Tregellis!” “We were expecting
you!” “There's a devilled bladebone ordered.”
“What's the latest from London?” “What is
the meaning of the long odds against your man?”
“Have the folk gone mad?” “What the devil
is it all about?” They were all talking at once.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” my uncle answered.
“I shall be happy to give you any information
in my power a little later. I have a matter of
some slight importance to decide. Belcher, I
would have a word with you!”
The Champion came out with us into the
passage.
“Where is your man, Belcher?”
“He has gone to his room, sir. I believe that
he should have a clear twelve hours' sleep before
fighting.”
“What sort of day has he had?”
“I did him lightly in the matter of exercise.
Clubs, dumbbells, walking, and a half-hour with
the mufflers. He'll do us all proud, sir, or I'm
a Dutchman But what in the world's amiss
with the betting? If I didn't know that he was
as straight as a line, I'd ha’ thought he was plan-
ning a cross and laying against himself.”
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RODNEY STONE
“This is my room, sir,” said Belcher, nodding
to a door upon the right. “This one upon the
left is his.” He threw it open as he spoke.
“Here's Sir Charles Tregellis come to see you,
Jim,” said he ; and then, “Good Lord, what is
the meaning of this?”
The little chamber lay before us brightly
illuminated by a brass lamp which stood upon
the table. The bed-clothes had not been turned
down, but there was an indentation upon the
counterpane which showed that some one had
lain there. One-half of the lattice window was
swinging on its hinge, and a cloth cap lying
upon the table was the only sign of the occu-
pant. My uncle looked round him and shook
his head.
“It seems that we are too late,” said he.
“That's his cap, sir. Where in the world can
he have gone to with his head bare? I thought
he was safe in his bed an hour ago. Jim Jim !"
he shouted.
“He has certainly gone through the window,"
cried my uncle. “I believe these villains have
enticed him out by some devilish device of their
own. Hold the lamp, nephew. Ha! I thought
so. Here are his footmarks upon the flower-bed
outside.”
The landlord, and one or two of the Corinthi-
ans from the bar-parlour, had followed us to the
282


FOUL PLAY
*-*.*, * =
back of the house. Some one had opened the
side door, and we found ourselves in the kitchen
garden, where, clustering upon the gravel path,
we were able to hold the lamp over the soft,
newly turned earth which lay between us and
the window.
“That's his footmark l” said Belcher. “He
wore his running boots this evening, and you can
see the nails. But what's this? Some one else
has been here.”
“A woman l” I cried.
“By Heaven, you're right, nephew,” said my
uncle. Belcher gave a hearty curse.
“He never had a word to say to any girl in
the village. I took partic'lar notice of that.
And to think of them coming in like this at the
last moment !”
“It's clear as possible, Tregellis,” said the Hon.
Berkeley Craven, who was one of the company
from the bar-parlour. “Whoever it was came
outside the window and tapped. You see here,
and here, the small feet have their toes to the
house, while the others are all leading away.
She came to summon him, and he followed her.”
“That is perfectly certain,” said my uncle.
“There's not a moment to be lost. We must
divide and search in different directions, unless
we can get some clue as to where they have
gone.”
19 283


FOUL PLAY
“’E slouched away, sir, an I saw the last of
'im.”
“You’ve seen no one else? You didn't, for
example, see a woman and a man pass down the
lane together?”
“No, sir.”
“Or hear anything unusual?”
“Why, now that you mention it, sir, I did
'ear somethin'; but on a night like this, when all
these London blades are in the villag 55
“What was it, then?” cried my uncle, im-
patiently.
“Well, sir, it was a kind of a cry out yonder
as if some one 'ad got imself into trouble. I
thought, maybe, two sparks were fightin', and I
took no partic'lar notice.”
“Where did it come from ?”
“From the side road, yonder.”
“Was it distant 2 ”
“No, sir; I should say it didn't come from
more'n two hundred yards.”
“A single cry?”
“Well, it was a kind of screech, sir, and then
I’eard somebody drivin' very 'ard down the road.
I remember thinking that it was strange that any
one should be driving away from Crawley on a
great night like this.”
My uncle seized the lantern from the fellow's
hand, and we all trooped behind him down the
285


RODNEY STONE
lane. At the further end the road cut it across
at right angles. Down this my uncle hastened,
but his search was not a long one, for the glar-
ing light fell suddenly upon something which
brought a groan to my lips and a bitter curse to
those of Jem Belcher. Along the white surface
of the dusty highway there was drawn a long
smear of crimson, while beside this ominous stain
there lay a murderous little pocket-bludgeon,
such as Warr had described in the morning.
286


CHA PTE R XVI
CRAWLEY DOWNS
ALL through that weary night my uncle and I,
with Belcher, Berkeley Craven, and a dozen of
the Corinthians, searched the country-side for
some trace of our missing man, but save for that
ill-boding splash upon the road not the slightest
clue could be obtained as to what had befallen
him. No one had seen or heard anything of
him, and the single cry in the night of which the
ostler told us was the only indication of the
tragedy which had taken place. In small parties
we scoured the country as far as East Grinstead
and Bletchingley, and the sun had been long over
the horizon before we found ourselves back at
Crawley once more with heavy hearts and tired
feet. My uncle, who had driven to Reigate in
the hope of gaining some intelligence, did not
return until past seven o'clock, and a glance at
his face gave us the same black news which he
gathered from ours.
We held a council round our dismal breakfast-
table, to which Mr. Berkeley Craven was invited
as a man of sound wisdom and large experience
in matters of sport. Belcher was half frenzied
287


* CRAWLEY DOWNS
“Well, we know that she came,” said Berk-
eley Craven. “There can be no question as to
that. She brought some piteous tale, no doubt,
such as a gallant young man could hardly refuse
to listen to. He fell into the trap, and allowed
himself to be decoyed to the place where these
rascals were waiting for him. We may take all
that as proved, I should fancy, Tregellis.”
“I see no better explanation,” said my uncle.
“Well, then, it is obviously not the interest of
these men to kill him. Warr heard them say as
much. They could not make sure, perhaps, of
doing so tough a young fellow an injury which
would certainly prevent him from fighting. Even
with a broken arm he might pull the fight off, as
men have done before. There was too much
money on for them to run any risks. They gave
him a tap on the head, therefore, to prevent his
making too much resistance, and they then drove
him off to some farmhouse or stable, where they
will hold him a prisoner until the time for the
fight is over. I warrant that you see him be-
fore to-night as well as ever he was.”
This theory sounded so reasonable that it
seemed to lift a little of the weight from my
heart, but I could see that from my uncle's point
of view it was a poor consolation.
“I dare say you are right, Craven,” said he.
“I am sure that I am.”
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RODNEY STONE
“But it won't help us to win the fight.”
“That's the point, sir,” cried Belcher. “By
the Lord, I wish they'd let me take his place,
even with my left arm strapped behind me.”
“I should advise you in any case to go to the
ring-side,” said Craven. “You should hold on
until the last moment in the hope of your man
turning up.”
“I shall certainly do so. And I shall protest
against paying the wagers under such circum-
stances.”
Craven shrugged his shoulders.
“You remember the conditions of the match,”
said he. “I fear it is pay or play. No doubt
the point might be submitted to the referees, but
I cannot doubt that they would have to give it
against you.”
We had sunk into a melancholy silence, when
suddenly Belcher sprang up from the table.
“Hark!” he cried. “Listen to that l”
“What is it?” we cried, all three.
“The betting ! Listen again l”
Out of the babel of voices and roaring of wheels
outside the window a single sentence struck sharp-
ly on our ears.
“Even money upon Sir Charles's nominee!”
“Even money!” cried my uncle. “It was
seven to one against me, yesterday. What is
the meaning of this?”
290


CRAWLEY DOWNS
“Even money either way,” cried the voice
again.
“There's somebody knows something,” said
Belcher, “and there's nobody has a better right
to know what it is than we. Come on, sir, and
we'll get to the bottom of it.”
The village street was packed with people, for
they had been sleeping twelve and fifteen in a
room, whilst hundreds of gentlemen had spent
the night in their carriages. So thick was the
throng that it was no easy matter to get out
of the George. A drunken man, snoring hor-
ribly in his breathing, was curled up in the
passage, absolutely oblivious to the stream of
people who flowed round and occasionally over
him.
“What's the betting, boys?” asked Belcher,
from the steps.
“Even money, Jim,” cried several voices.
“It was long odds on Wilson when last I
heard.”
“Yes; but there came a man who laid freely
the other way, and he started others taking the
odds, until now you can get even money.”
“Who started it 2 ”
“Why, that's hel The man that lies drunk
in the passage. He's been pouring it down like
water ever since he drove in at six o'clock, so it's
no wonder he's like that.”
291


RODNEY STONE
Belcher stooped down and turned over the
man's inert head so as to show his features.
“He’s a stranger to me, sir.”
“And to me,” added my uncle.
“But not to me,” I cried. “It's John Cum-
ming, the landlord of the inn at Friar's Oak.
I've known him ever since I was a boy, and I
can't be mistaken.”
“Well, what the devil can he know about it?”
said Craven.
“Nothing at all, in all probability,” answered
my uncle. “He is backing young Jim because
he knows him, and because he has more brandy
than sense. His drunken confidence set others
to do the same, and so the odds came down.”
“He was as sober as a judge when he drove
in here this morning,” said the landlord. “He
began backing Sir Charles's nominee from the
moment he arrived. Some of the other boys
took the office from him, and they very soon
brought the odds down amongst them.”
“I wish he had not brought himself down as
well,” said my uncle. “I beg that you will bring
me a little lavender water, landlord, for the smell
of this crowd is appalling. I suppose you could
not get any sense from this drunken fellow,
nephew, or find out what it is he knows.”
It was in vain that I rocked him by the shoul-
der and shouted his name in his ear. Noth-
292


CRAWLEY DOWNS
ing could break in upon that serene intoxi-
cation.
“Well, it's a unique situation as far as my
experience goes,” said Berkeley Craven. “Here
we are within a couple of hours of the fight, and
yet you don't know whether you have a man to
represent you. I hope you don't stand to lose
very much, Tregellis.”
My uncle shrugged his shoulders carelessly,
and took a pinch of his snuff with that inimitable
sweeping gesture which no man has ever vent-
ured to imitate.
“Pretty well, my boy!” said he “But it is
time that we thought of going up to the Downs.
This night journey has left me just a little ef.
fleuré, and I should like half an hour of privacy
to arrange my toilet. If this is my last kick, it
shall at least be with a well-brushed boot.”
I have heard a traveller from the wilds of
America say that he looked upon the Red Ind-
ian and the English gentleman as closely akin,
citing the passion for sport, the aloofness and
the suppression of the emotions in each. I
thought of his words as I watched my uncle
that morning, for I believe that no victim tied
to the stake could have had a worse outlook be-
fore him. It was not merely that his own fort-
unes were largely at stake, but it was the dread-
ful position in which he would stand before this
293


RODNEY STONE
immense concourse of people, many of whom
had put their money upon his judgment, if he
should find himself at the last moment with an
impotent excuse instead of a champion to put
before them. What a situation for a man who
prided himself upon his aplomb, and upon bring-
ing all that he undertook to the very highest
standard of success I, who knew him well,
could tell from his wan cheeks and his restless
fingers that he was at his wit’s ends what to do;
but no stranger who observed his jaunty bearing,
the flecking of his lace handkerchief, the hand-
ling of his quizzing glass, or the shooting of his
ruffles, would ever have thought that this butter-
fly creature could have had a care upon earth.
It was close upon nine o'clock when we were
ready to start for the Downs, and by that time
my uncle's curricle was almost the only vehicle
left in the village street. The night before they
had lain with their wheels interlocking and their
shafts under each other's bodies, as thick as they
could fit, from the old church to the Crawley
Elm, spanning the road five-deep for a good
half-mile in length. Now the grey village street
lay before us almost deserted save by a few
women and children. Men, horses, carriages—
all were gone. My uncle drew on his driving-
gloves and arranged his costume with punctilious
neatness; but I observed that he glanced up and
294


CRAWLEY DOWNS
down the road with a haggard and yet expectant
eye before he took his seat. I sat behind with
Belcher, while the Hon. Berkeley Craven took
the place beside him.
The road from Crawley curves gently upwards
to the upland heather-clad plateau which extends
for many miles in every direction. Strings of
pedestrians, most of them so weary and dust-
covered that it was evident that they had walked
the thirty miles from London during the night,
were plodding along by the sides of the road
or trailing over the long mottled slopes of the
moorland. A horseman, fantastically dressed in
green and splendidly mounted, was waiting at
the cross-roads, and as he spurred towards us I
recognized the dark, handsome face and bold
black eyes of Mendoza.
“I am waiting here to give the office, Sir
Charles,” said he. “It's down the Grinstead
road, half a mile to the left.”
“Very good,” said my uncle, reining his mares
round into the cross-road.
“You haven't got your man there,” remarked
Mendoza, with something of suspicion in his
IIlanner.
“What the devil is that to you?” cried
Belcher, furiously.
“It's a good deal to all of us, for there are
some funny stories about.”
295


RODNEY STONE
as far as our eyes could follow it. The big
barouche came lumbering over the sward in our
direction until Sir Lothian Hume caught sight
of us, when he shouted to his postilions to
pull up.
“Good morning, Sir Charles,” said he, spring-
ing out of the carriage. “I thought I knew
your scarlet curricle. We have an excellent
morning for the battle.”
My uncle bowed coldly, and made no answer.
“I suppose that since we are all here we may
begin at once,” said Sir Lothian, taking no notice
of the other's manner.
“We begin at ten o'clock. Not an instant
before.”
“Very good, if you prefer it. By the way,
Sir Charles, where is your man?”
“I would ask you that question, Sir Lothian,”
answered my uncle. “Where is my man?”
A look of astonishment passed over Sir Lo-
thian's features, which, if it were not real, was
most admirably affected.
“What do you mean by asking me such a
question?”
“Because I wish to know.”
“But how can I tell, and what business is it
of mine?”
“I have reason to believe that you have made
it your business.”
298


RODNEY STONE
hound rearing and ramping at the end of its
chain. Then, with an effort, he became the
same cold, hard, self-contained man as ever.
“It does not become our position to quarrel
like two yokels at a fair,” said he; “we shall go
further into the matter afterwards.” -
“I promise you that we shall,” answered my
uncle, grimly.
“Meanwhile, I hold you to the terms of your
wager. Unless you produce your nominee within
five-and-twenty minutes, I claim the match.”
“Eight-and-twenty minutes,” said my uncle,
looking at his watch. “You may claim it then,
but not an instant before.”
He was admirable at that moment, for his
manner was that of a man with all sorts of
hidden resources, so that I could hardly make
myself realize as I looked at him that our posi-
tion was really as desperate as I knew it to be.
In the meantime Berkeley Craven, who had been
exchanging a few words with Sir Lothian Hume,
came back to our side.
“I have been asked to be sole referee in this
matter,” said he, “Does that meet with your
wishes, Sir Charles #"
“I should be vastly obliged to you, Craven, if
you will undertake the duties.”
“And Jackson has been suggested as time-
keeper.”
300


CRAWLEY DOWNS
“I could not wish a better one.”
“Very good. That is settled.”
In the meantime the last of the carriages had
come up, and the horses had all been picketed
upon the moor. The stragglers who had dotted
the grass had closed in until the huge crowd
was one unit with a single mighty voice, which
was already beginning to bellow its impatience.
Looking round, there was hardly a moving ob-
ject upon the whole vast expanse of green and
purple down. A belated gig was coming at full
gallop down the road which led from the south,
and a few pedestrians were still trailing up from
Crawley, but nowhere was there a sign of the
missing man.
“The betting keeps up for all that,” said
Belcher. “I’ve just been to the ring-side, and
it is still even.”
“There's a place for you at the outer ropes,
Sir Charles,” said Craven.
“There is no sign of my man yet. I won't
come in until he arrives.”
“It is my duty to tell you that only ten min-
utes are left.”
“I make it five,” cried Sir Lothian Hume.
“That is a question which lies with the ref-
eree,” said Craven, firmly. “My watch makes
it ten minutes, and ten it must be.”
“Here's Crab Wilson 1" cried Belcher, and at
301


RODNEY STONE
the same moment a shout like a thunderclap
burst from the crowd. The west-countryman
had emerged from his dressing-tent, followed by
Dutch Sam and Tom Owen, who were acting
as his seconds. He was nude to the waist, with
a pair of white calico drawers, white silk stock-
ings, and running shoes. Round his middle was
a canary-yellow sash, and dainty little ribbons of
the same colour fluttered from the sides of his
knees. He carried a high white hat in his hand,
and running down the lane which had been kept
open through the crowd to allow persons to reach
the ring, he threw the hat high into the air, so
that it fell within the staked enclosure. Then
with a double spring he cleared the outer and
inner line of rope, and stood with his arms folded
in the centre.
I do not wonder that the people cheered.
Even Belcher could not help joining in the
general shout of applause. He was certainly a
splendidly built young athlete, and one could
not have wished to look upon a finer sight as his
white skin, sleek and luminous as a panther's,
gleamed in the light of the morning sun, with
a beautiful liquid rippling of muscles at every
movement. His arms were long and slingy, his
shoulders loose and yet powerful, with the down-
ward slant which is a surer index of power than
squareness can be. He clasped his hands behind
302


CRAWLEY DOWNS
his head, threw them aloft, and swung them
backwards, and at every movement some fresh
expanse of his smooth, white skin became
knobbed and gnarled with muscles, whilst a
yell of admiration and delight from the crowd
greeted each fresh exhibition. Then, folding his
arms once more, he stood like a beautiful statue
waiting for his antagonist.
Sir Lothian Hume had been looking impa-
tiently at his watch, and now he shut it with a
triumphant snap.
“Time's up !” he cried. “The match is for-
feit.”
“Time is not up,” said Craven.
“I have still five minutes.” My uncle looked
round with despairing eyes.
“Only three, Tregellis !”
A deep angry murmur was rising from the
crowd. “It’s a cross | It's a cross | It's a
fake l’ was the cry.
“Two minutes, Tregellis !”
“Where's your man, Sir Charles? Where's
the man that we have backed ?” Flushed faces
began to crane over each other, and angry eyes
glared up at us.
“One more minute, Tregellis ! I am very
sorry, but it will be my duty to declare it forfeit
against you.”
There was a sudden swirl in the crowd, a rush,
303


CHAPTER XVII
THE RING-SIDE
OUT of the whole of that vast multitude I was
one of the very few who had observed whence it
was that this black hat, skimming so opportunely
over the ropes, had come. I have already re-
marked that when we looked around us there
had been a single gig travelling very rapidly
upon the southern road. My uncle's eyes had
rested upon it, but his attention had been drawn
away by the discussion between Sir Lothian
Hume and the referee upon the question of
time. For my own part, I had been so struck
by the furious manner in which these belated
travellers were approaching, that I had contin-
ued to watch them with all sorts of vague hopes
within me, which I did not dare to put into
words for fear of adding to my uncle's disap-
pointments. I had just made out that the gig
contained a man and a woman, when suddenly I
saw it swerve off the road, and come with a gal-
loping horse and bounding wheels right across
the moor, crashing through the gorse bushes,
and sinking down to the hubs in the heather
and bracken. As the driver pulled up his foam-
305


RODNEY STONE
spattered horse, he threw the reins to his com-
panion, sprang from his seat, butted furiously
into the crowd, and then an instant afterwards
up went the hat which told of his challenge and
defiance.
“There is no hurry now, I presume, Craven,”
said my uncle, as coolly as if this sudden effect
had been carefully devised by him.
“Now that your man has his hat in the ring
you can take as much time as you like, Sir
Charles.”
“Your friend has certainly cut it rather fine,
nephew.”
“It is not Jim, sir,” I whispered. “It is
some one else.”
My uncle's eyebrows betrayed his astonish-
ment.
“Some one else!” he ejaculated.
“And a good man too !” roared Belcher, slap-
ping his thigh with a crack like a pistol-shot.
“Why, blow my dickey if it ain't old Jack
Harrison himself!”
Looking down at the crowd, we had seen the
head and shoulders of a powerful and strenuous
man moving slowly forward, and leaving behind
him a long V-shaped ripple upon its surface like
the wake of a swimming dog. Now, as he
pushed his way through the looser fringe the
head was raised, and there was the grinning,
306


THE RING-SIDE
hardy face of the smith looking up at us. He
had left his hat in the ring, and was enveloped
in an overcoat with a blue bird's-eye handker-
chief tied round his neck. As he emerged from
the throng he let his great-coat fly loose, and
showed that he was dressed in his full fighting
kit—black drawers, chocolate stockings, and
white shoes.
“I’m right sorry to be so late, Sir Charles,” he
cried. “I’d have been sooner, but it took me a
little time to make it all straight with the missus.
I couldn’t convince her all at once, an’ so I
brought her with me, and we argued it out on
the way.”
Looking at the gig, I saw that it was indeed
Mrs. Harrison who was seated in it. Sir Charles
beckoned him up to the wheel of the curricle.
“What in the world brings you here, Harri-
son?” he whispered. “I am as glad to see you
as ever I was to see a man in my life, but I con-
fess that I did not expect you.”
“Well, sir, you heard I was coming,” said the
smith.
“Indeed, I did not.”
“Didn't you get a message, Sir Charles, from
a man named Cumming, landlord of the Friar's
Oak Inn?” Mister Rodney there would know
him.”
“We saw him dead drunk at the George.”
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RODNEY STONE
“There, now, if I wasn't afraid of it!” cried
Harrison, angrily. “He’s always like that when
he's excited, and I never saw a man more off his
head than he was when he heard I was going to
take this job over. He brought a bag of sover-
eigns up with him to back me with.”
“That's how the betting got turned,” said my
uncle. “He found others to follow his lead, it
appears.”
“I was so afraid that he might get upon the
drink that I made him promise to go straight to
you, sir, the very instant he should arrive. He
had a note to deliver.”
“I understand that he reached the George at
six, whilst I did not return from Reigate until
after seven, by which time I have no doubt that
he had drunk his message to me out of his head.
But where is your nephew Jim, and how did you
come to know that you would be needed?”
“It is not his fault, I promise you, that you
should be left in the lurch. As to me, I had
my orders to take his place from the only man
upon earth whose word I have never dis-
obeyed.”
“Yes, Sir Charles,” said Mrs. Harrison, who
had left the gig and approached us. “You can
make the most of it this time, for never again
shall you have my Jack—not if you were to go
on your knees for him.”
308


THE RING-SIDE
“She's not a patron of sport, and that's a fact,”
said the smith.
“Sport!” she cried, with shrill contempt and
anger. “Tell me when all is over.”
She hurried away, and I saw her afterwards
seated amongst the bracken, her back turned
towards the multitude, and her hands over her
ears, cowering and wincing in an agony of appre-
hension.
Whilst this hurried scene had been taking
place, the crowd had become more and more
tumultuous, partly from their impatience at the
delay, and partly from their exuberant spirits at
the unexpected chance of seeing so celebrated a
fighting-man as Harrison. His identity had
already been noised abroad, and many an elderly
connoisseur plucked his long net-purse out of his
fob, in order to put a few guineas upon the man
who would represent the school of the past
against the present. The younger men were
still in favour of the west-countryman, and small
odds were to be had either way in proportion to
the number of the supporters of each in the dif-
ferent parts of the crowd.
In the meantime Sir Lothian Hume had
come bustling up to the Honourable Berkeley
Craven, who was still standing near our curricle.
“I beg to lodge a formal protest against these
proceedings,” said he.
309


RODNEY STONE
“On what grounds, sir?”
“Because the man produced is not the origi-
nal nominee of Sir Charles Tregellis.”
“I never named one, as you are well aware,”
said my uncle.
“The betting has all been upon the under-
standing that young Jim Harrison was my
man's opponent. Now, at the last moment, he
is withdrawn and another and more formidable
man put into his place.”
“Sir Charles Tregellis is quite within his rights,”
said Craven, firmly. “He undertook to produce
a man who should be within the age limits stip-
ulated, and I understand that Harrison fulfils all
the conditions. You are over five-and-thirty,
Harrison?”
“Forty-one next month, master.”
“Very good. I direct that the fight pro-
ceed.”
But alas ! there was one authority which was
higher even than that of the referee, and we
were destined to an experience which was the
prelude, and sometimes the conclusion, also, of
many an old-time fight. Across the moor there
had ridden a black-coated gentleman, with buff-
topped hunting-boots and a couple of grooms
behind him, the little knot of horsemen showing
up clearly upon the curving swells and then
dipping down into the alternate hollows. Some
310


THE RING-SIDE
of the more observant of the crowd had glanced
suspiciously at this advancing figure, but the
majority had not observed him at all until he
reined up his horse upon a knoll which over-
looked the amphitheatre, and in a stentorian
voice announced that he represented the Custos
rotulorum of His Majesty's county of Sussex,
that he proclaimed this assembly to be gathered
together for an illegal purpose, and that he was
commissioned to disperse it by force, if neces-
sary. -
Never before had I understood that deep-
seated fear and wholesome respect which many
centuries of bludgeoning at the hands of the law
had beaten into the fierce and turbulent natives
of these islands. Here was a man with two at-
tendants upon one side, and on the other thirty
thousand very angry and disappointed people,
many of them fighters by profession, and some
from the roughest and most dangerous classes in
the country. And yet it was the single man
who appealed confidently to force, whilst the
huge multitude swayed and murmured like a
mutinous fierce-willed creature brought face to
face with a power against which it knew that
there was neither argument nor resistance. My
uncle, however, with Berkeley Craven, Sir John
Lade, and a dozen other lords and gentlemen,
hurried across to the interrupter of the sport.
311


RODNEY STONE
“I presume that you have a warrant, sir?”
said Craven.
“Yes, sir, I have a warrant.”
“Then I have a legal right to inspect it.”
The magistrate handed him a blue paper
which the little knot of gentlemen clustered
their heads over, for they were mostly magis-
trates themselves, and were keenly alive to any
possible flaw in the wording. At last Craven
shrugged his shoulders, and handed it back.
“This seems to be correct, sir,” said he.
“It is entirely correct,” answered the magis-
trate, affably. “To prevent waste of your valu-
able time, gentlemen, I may say, once for all,
that it is my unalterable determination that no
fight shall, under any circumstances, be brought
off in the county over which I have control, and
I am prepared to follow you all day in order to
prevent it.”
To my inexperience this appeared to bring the
whole matter to a conclusion, but I had under-
rated the foresight of those who arrange these
affairs, and also the advantages which made
Crawley Down so favourite a rendezvous.
There was a hurried consultation between the
principals, the backers, the referee, and the time-
keeper.
“It's seven miles to Hampshire border and
about two to Surrey,” said Jackson. The fa-
312


RODNEY STONE
country. Crab Wilson was enveloped in great
coats, and borne away in the barouche, whilst
Champion Harrison took Mr. Craven's place in
our curricle. Then, off the huge crowd started,
horsemen, vehicles, and pedestrians, rolling slowly
over the broad face of the moorland. The car-
riages rocked and pitched like boats in a seaway,
as they lumbered along, fifty abreast, scrambling
and lurching over everything which came in
their way. Sometimes, with a snap and a thud,
one axle would come to the ground, whilst a
wheel reeled off amidst the tussocks of heather,
and roars of delight greeted the owners as they
looked ruefully at the ruin. Then as the gorse
clumps grew thinner, and the sward more level,
those on foot began to run, the riders struck in
their spurs, the drivers cracked their whips, and
away they all streamed in the maddest, wildest
cross-country steeplechase, the yellow barouche
and the crimson curricle, which held the two
champions, leading the van.
“What do you think of your chances, Har-
rison?” I heard my uncle ask, as the two mares
picked their way over the broken ground.
“It's my last fight, Sir Charles,” said the smith.
“You heard the missus say that if she let me off
this time I was never to ask again. I must try
and make it a good one.”
“But your training?”
314


THE RING-SIDE
“I’m always in training, sir. I work hard
from morning to night, and I drink little else
than water. I don't think that Captain Barclay
can do much better with all his rules.”
“He’s rather long in the reach for you.”
“I’ve fought and beat them that were longer.
If it comes to a rally I should hold my own, and
I should have the better of him at a throw.”
“It's a match of youth against experience.
Well, I would not hedge a guinea of my money.
But, unless he was acting under force, I cannot
forgive young Jim for having deserted me.”
“He was acting under force, Sir Charles.”
“You have seen him, then?”
“No, master, I have not seen him.”
“You know where he is?”
“Well, it is not for me to say one way or the
other. I can only tell you that he could not
help himself. But here's the beak a-comin' for
us again.”
The ominous figure galloped up once more
alongside of our curricle, but this time his mis-
sion was a more amiable one.
“My jurisdiction ends at that ditch, sir,” said
he. “I should fancy that you could hardly wish
a better place for a mill than the sloping field
beyond. I am quite sure that no one will inter-
fere with you there.”
His anxiety that the fight should be brought
21 315


RODNEY STONE
off was in such contrast to the zeal with which
he had chased us from his county, that my uncle
could not help remarking upon it.
“It is not for a magistrate to wink at the
breaking of the law, sir,” he answered. “But if
my colleague of Hampshire has no scruples
about its being brought off within his jurisdic-
tion, I should very much like to see the fight,”
with which he spurred his horse up an adjacent
knoll, from which he thought that he might gain
the best view of the proceedings.
And now I had a view of all those points of
etiquette and curious survivals of custom which
are so recent, that we have not yet appreciated
that they may some day be as interesting to the
social historian as they then were to the sports-
man. A dignity was given to the contest by a
rigid code of ceremony, just as the clash of mail-
clad knights was prefaced and adorned by the
calling of the heralds and the showing of blazoned
shields. To many in those ancient days the
tourney may have seemed a bloody and brutal
ordeal, but we who look at it with ample per-
spective see that it was a rude but gallant prep-
aration for the conditions of life in an iron age.
And so also, when the ring has become as extinct
as the lists, we may understand that a broader
philosophy would show that all things, which
spring up so naturally and spontaneously, have a
316


THE RING-SIDE
function to fulfil, and that it is a less evil that
two men should, of their own free will, fight
until they can fight no more than that the stand-
ard of hardihood and endurance should run the
slightest risk of being lowered in a nation which
depends so largely upon the individual qualities
of her citizens for her defence. Do away with
war, if the cursed thing can by any wit of man
be avoided, but until you see your way to that,
have a care in meddling with those primitive
qualities to which at any moment you may have
to appeal for your own protection.
Tom Owen and his singular assistant, Fogo,
who combined the functions of prize-fighter and
of poet, though, fortunately for himself, he could
use his fists better than his pen, soon had the
ring arranged according to the rules then in
vogue. The white wooden posts, each with the
P.C. of the pugilistic club printed upon it, were
so fixed as to leave a square of 24 feet within the
roped enclosure. Outside this ring an outer one
was pitched, eight feet separating the two. The
inner was for the combatants and for their sec-
onds, while in the outer there were places for the
referee, the timekeeper, the backers, and a few se-
lect and fortunate individuals, of whom, through
being in my uncle's company, I was one. Some
twenty well-known prize-fighters, including my
friend Bill Warr, Black Richmond, Maddox, The
317


RODNEY STONE
Pride of Westminster, Tom Belcher, Paddington
Jones, Tough Tom Blake, Symonds the ruffian,
Tyne the tailor, and others, were stationed in the
outer ring as beaters. These fellows all wore the
high white hats which were at that time much
affected by the fancy, and they were armed with
horse-whips, silver-mounted, and each bearing
the P.C. monogram. Did any one, be it East
End rough or West End patrician, intrude within
the outer ropes, this corps of guardians neither
argued nor expostulated, but they fell upon the
offender and laced him with their whips until
he escaped back out of the forbidden ground.
Even with so formidable a guard and such fierce
measures, the beaters-out, who had to check the
forward heaves of a maddened, straining crowd,
were often as exhausted at the end of a fight
as the principals themselves. In the meantime
they formed up in a line of sentinels, presenting
under their row of white hats every type of fight-
ing face, from the fresh boyish countenances of
Tom Belcher, Jones, and the other younger re-
cruits, to the scarred and mutilated visages of the
veteran bruisers.
Whilst the business of the fixing of the stakes
and the fastening of the ropes was going for-
ward, I from my place of vantage could hear the
talk of the crowd behind me, the front two rows
of which were lying upon the grass, the next two
318


THE RING-SIDE
kneeling, and the others standing in serried
ranks all up the side of the gently sloping hill,
so that each line could just see over the shoul-
ders of that which was in front. There were
several, and those amongst the most experi-
enced, who took the gloomiest view of Harri-
son's chances, and it made my heart heavy to
overhear them.
“It's the old story over again,” said one.
“They won't bear in mind that youth will be
served. They only learn wisdom when it's
knocked into them.”
“Ay, ay,” responded another. “That's how
Jack Slack thrashed Boughton, and I myself saw
Hooper, the tinman, beat to pieces by the fight-
ing oil-man. They all come to it in time, and
now it's Harrison's turn.”
“Don’t you be so sure about that!” cried a
third. “I’ve seen Jack Harrison fight five times,
and I never yet saw him have the worse of it.
He's a slaughterer, and so I tell you.”
“He was, you mean.” -
“Well, I don’t see no such difference as all
that comes to, and I'm putting ten guineas on
my opinion.”
“Why,” said a loud, consequential man from
immediately behind me, speaking with a broad
western burr, “vrom what I’vezeen of this young
Gloucester lad, I doan’t think Harrison could have
319


RODNEY STONE
stood bevore him for ten rounds when he vas
in his prime. I vas coming up in the Bristol
coach yesterday, and the guard he told me
that he had vifteen thousand pound in hard
gold in the boot that had been zent up to back
our man.”
“They'll be in luck if they see their money
again,” said another. “Harrison's no lady's-maid
fighter, and he's blood to the bone. He'd have
a shy at it if his man was as big as Carlton
House.”
“Tut,” answered the west-countryman. “It's
only in Bristol and Gloucester that you can get
men to beat Bristol and Gloucester.”
“It's like your damned himpudence to say so,”
said an angry voice from the throng behind him.
“There are six men in London that would hen-
gage to walk round the best twelve that hever
came from the west.”
The proceedings might have opened by an im-
promptu bye-battle between the indignant cock-
ney and the gentleman from Bristol, but a pro-
longed roar of applause broke in upon their
altercation. It was caused by the appearance in
the ring of Crab Wilson, followed by Dutch Sam
and Mendoza carrying the basin, sponge, brandy-
bladder, and other badges of their office. As he
entered Wilson pulled the canary-yellow hand-
kerchief from his waist, and going to the corner
320











THE RING-SIDE
post, he tied it to the top of it, where it remained
fluttering in the breeze. He then took a bundle
of smaller ribands of the same colour from his
seconds, and walking round, he offered them to
the noblemen and Corinthians at half-a-guinea
apiece as souvenirs of the fight. His brisk trade
was only brought to an end by the appearance
of Harrison, who climbed in a very leisurely
manner over the ropes, as befitted his more ma-
ture years and less elastic joints. The yell which
greeted him was even more enthusiastic than
that which had heralded Wilson, and there was
a louder ring of admiration in it, for the crowd
had already had their opportunity of seeing Wil-
son's physique, whilst Harrison's was a surprise
to them.
I had often looked upon the mighty arms and
neck of the smith, but I had never before seen
him stripped to the waist, or understood the
marvellous symmetry of development which had
made him in his youth the favourite model of the
London sculptors. There was none of that white
sleek skin and shimmering play of sinew which
made Wilson a beautiful picture, but in its stead
there was a rugged grandeur of knotted and tan-
gled muscle, as though the roots of some old tree
were writhing from breast to shoulder, and from
shoulder to elbow. Even in repose the sun threw
shadows from the curves of his skin, but when he
321


THE SMITH'S LAST BATTLE
gellis's nominee is Jack Harrison, fighting at
thirteen-eight, and Sir Lothian Hume's is Crab
Wilson, at thirteen-three. No person can be
allowed at the inner ropes save the referee and
the timekeeper. I have only to beg that, if the
occasion should require it, you will all give me
your assistance to keep the ground clear, to pre-
vent confusion, and to have a fair fight. All
ready?”
“All ready!” from both corners.
“Time !”
There was a breathless hush as Harrison,
Wilson, Belcher, and Dutch Sam walked very
briskly into the centre of the ring. The two
men shook hands, whilst their seconds did the
same, the four hands crossing each other. Then
the seconds dropped back, and the two cham-
pions stood toe to toe, with their hands up.
It was a magnificent sight to any one who had
not lost his sense of appreciation of the noblest
of all the works of Nature. Both men fulfilled
that requisite of the powerful athlete that they
should look larger without their clothes than
with them. In ring slang, they buffed well.
And each showed up the other's points on ac-
count of the extreme contrast between them:
the long, loose-limbed, deer-footed youngster,
and the square-set, rugged veteran with his
trunk like the stump of an oak. The betting
325


RODNEY STONE
began to rise upon the younger man from the
instant that they were put face to face, for his
advantages were obvious, whilst those qualities
which had brought Harrison to the top in his
youth were only a memory in the minds of the
older men. All could see the three inches extra
of height and two of reach which Wilson pos-
sessed, and a glance at the quick, cat-like mo-
tions of his feet, and the perfect poise of his
body upon his legs, showed how swiftly he could
spring either in or out from his slower adversary.
But it took a subtler insight to read the grim
smile which flickered over the smith's mouth, or
the smouldering fire which shone in his grey
eyes, and it was only the old-timers who knew
that, with his mighty heart and his iron frame,
he was a perilous man to lay odds against.
Wilson stood in the position from which he
had derived his nickname, his left hand and left
foot well to the front, his body sloped very far
back from his loins, and his guard thrown across
his chest, but held well forward in a way which
made him exceedingly hard to get at. The
smith, on the other hand, assumed the obso-
lete attitude which Humphries and Mendoza in-
troduced, but which had not for ten years been
seen in a first-class battle. Both his knees were
slightly bent, he stood square to his opponent,
and his two big brown fists were held over his
326


RODNEY STONE
a panther spring, the west-countryman was on
him. Smack | smack | smack | Thud! thud!
The first three were on Harrison's face, the last
two were heavy counters upon Wilson's body.
Back danced the youngster, disengaging himself
in beautiful style, but with two angry red blotches
over the lower line of his ribs. “Blood for Wil-
son 1" yelled the crowd, and as the smith faced
round to follow the movements of his nimble
adversary, I saw with a thrill that his chin was
crimson and dripping. In came Wilson again
with a feint at the mark and a flush hit on Har-
rison's cheek; then, breaking the force of the
smith's ponderous right counter, he brought the
round to a conclusion by slipping down upon the
grass.
“First knock-down for Harrison l” roared a
thousand voices, for ten times as many pounds
would change hands upon the point.
“I appeal to the referee!” cried Sir Lothian
Hume. “It was a slip, and not a knock-down.”
“I give it a slip,” said Berkeley Craven, and
the men walked to their corners, amidst a general
shout of applause for a spirited and well-contested
opening round. Harrison fumbled in his mouth
with his finger and thumb, and then with a sharp
half-turn he wrenched out a tooth, which he
threw into the basin. “Quite like old times,”
said he to Belcher.
328


THE SMITH'S LAST BATTLE
“Have a care, Jack!” whispered the anxious
second. “You got rather more than you gave.”
“Maybe I can carry more, too,” said he
serenely, whilst Caleb Baldwin mopped the big
sponge over his face, and the shining bottom of
the tin basin ceased suddenly to glimmer through
the water.
I could gather from the comments of the ex-
perienced Corinthians around me, and from the
remarks of the crowd behind, that Harrison's
chance was thought to have been lessened by
this round.
“I’ve seen his old faults and I haven’t seen his
old merits,” said Sir John Lade, our opponent of
the Brighton Road. “He’s as slow on his feet
and with his guard as ever. Wilson hit him as
he liked.”
“Wilson may hit him three times to his once,
but his one is worth Wilson's three,” remarked
my uncle. “He’s a natural fighter and the other
an excellent sparrer, but I don't hedge a guinea.”
A sudden hush announced that the men were
on their feet again, and so skilfully had the
seconds done their work, that neither looked a
jot the worse for what had passed. Wilson led
viciously with his left, but misjudged his dis-
tance, receiving a smashing counter on the mark
in reply which sent him reeling and gasping to
the ropes. “Hurrah for the old one!” yelled
329


RODNEY STONE
the mob, and my uncle laughed and nudged Sir
John Lade. The west-countryman smiled, and
shook himself like a dog from the water as with
a stealthy step he came back to the centre of the
ring, where his man was still standing. Bang
came Harrison's right upon the mark once more,
but Crab broke the blow with his elbow, and
jumped laughing away. Both men were a little
winded, and their quick, high breathing, with the
light patter of their feet as they danced round
each other, blended into one continuous, long-
drawn sound. Two simultaneous exchanges
with the left made a clap like a pistol-shot, and
then as Harrison rushed in for a fall, Wilson
slipped him, and over went my old friend upon
his face, partly from the impetus of his own futile
attack, and partly from a swinging half-arm blow
which the west-countryman brought home upon
his ear as he passed.
“Knock-down for Wilson,” cried the referee,
and the answering roar was like the broadside
of a seventy-four. Up went hundreds of curly
brimmed Corinthian hats into the air, and the
slope before us was a bank of flushed and yelling
faces. My heart was cramped with my fears,
and I winced at every blow, yet I was conscious
also of an absolute fascination, with a wild thrill
of fierce joy and a certain exultation in our com-
mon human nature which could rise above pain
330


RODNEY STONE
The seventh round, however, showed the re-
serve strength of the hardy old fighter, and
lengthened the faces of those layers of odds who
had imagined that the fight was practically over,
and that a few finishing rounds would have given
the smith his coup-de-grâce. It was clear when
the two men faced each other that Wilson had
made himself up for mischief, and meant to
force the fighting and maintain the lead which
he had gained, but that grey gleam was not
quenched yet in the veteran's eyes, and still the
same smile played over his grim face. He had
become more jaunty, too, in the swing of his
shoulders and the poise of his head, and it
brought my confidence back to see the brisk
way in which he squared up to his man.
Wilson led with his left, but was short, and
he only just avoided a dangerous right-hander
which whistled in at his ribs. “Bravo, old 'un,
one of those will be a dose of laudanum if you
get it home,” cried Belcher. There was a pause
of shuffling feet and hard breathing, broken by
the thud of a tremendous body blow from Wil-
son, which the Smith stopped with the utmost
coolness. Then again a few seconds of silent
tension, when Wilson led viciously at the head,
but Harrison took it on his forearm, smiling and
nodding at his opponent. “Get the pepper-box
open l” yelled Mendoza, and Wilson sprang in
334


THE SMITH'S LAST BATTLE
to carry out his instructions, but was hit out
again by a heavy drive on the chest. “Now's
the time! Follow it up !” cried Belcher, and in
rushed the Smith, pelting in his half-arm blows,
and taking the returns without a wince, until
Crab Wilson went down exhausted in the cor-
ner. Both men had their marks to show, but
Harrison had all the best of the rally, so it was
our turn to throw our hats into the air and to
shout ourselves hoarse, whilst the seconds clapped
their man upon his broad back as they hurried
him to his corner.
“What think you now?” shouted all the
neighbours of the west-countryman, repeating
his own refrain.
“Why, Dutch Sam never put in a better
rally,” cried Sir John Lade. “What's the bet-
ting now, Sir Lothian 3”
“I have laid all that I intend ; but I don’t
think my man can lose it.” For all that, the
smile had faded from his face, and I observed
that he glanced continually over his shoulder
into the crowd behind him.
A sullen purple cloud had been drifting slowly
up from the south-west—though I dare say that
out of thirty thousand folk there were very few
who had spared the time or attention to mark it.
Now it suddenly made its presence apparent by
a few heavy drops of rain, thickening rapidly into
335


RODNEY STONE
a sharp shower, which filled the air with its hiss,
and rattled noisily upon the high, hard hats of
the Corinthians. Coat-collars were turned up
and handkerchiefs tied round necks, whilst the
skins of the two men glistened with the moisture
as they stood up to each other once more. I
noticed that Belcher whispered very earnestly
into Harrison's ear as he rose from his knee, and
that the smith nodded his head curtly, with the
air of a man who understands and approves of
his orders.
And what those orders were was instantly ap-
parent. Harrison was to be turned from the de-
fender into the attacker. The result of the rally
in the last round had convinced his seconds that
when it came to give-and-take hitting, their
hardy and powerful man was likely to have the
better of it. And then on the top of this came
the rain. With the slippery grass the superior
activity of Wilson would be neutralized, and he
would find it harder to avoid the rushes of his
opponent. It was in taking advantage of such
circumstances that the art of ringcraft lay, and
many a shrewd and vigilant second had won a
losing battle for his man. “Go in, then I Go
in 1” whooped the two prize-fighters, while every
backer in the crowd took up the roar.
And Harrison went in, in such fashion that no
man who saw him do it will ever forget it. Crab
336


THE SMITH'S LAST BATTLE
glances flying backwards into the crowd. For
some time, amidst the immense hillside of faces
which banked themselves up on the slope behind
us, I was unable to pick out the exact point at
which his gaze was directed. But at last I suc-
ceeded in following it. A very tall man, who
showed a pair of broad, bottle-green shoulders
high above his neighbours, was looking very
hard in our direction, and I assured myself that
a quick exchange of almost imperceptible signals
was going on between him and the Corinthian
baronet. I became conscious, also, as I watched
this stranger, that the cluster of men around him
were the roughest elements of the whole assem-
bly: fierce, vicious-looking fellows, with cruel,
debauched faces, who howled like a pack of
wolves at every blow, and yelled execrations at
Harrison whenever he walked across to his cor-
ner. So turbulent were they that I saw the
ringkeepers whisper together and glance up in
their direction, as if preparing for trouble in store,
but none of them had realized how near it was
to breaking out, or how dangerous it might
prove.
Thirty rounds had been fought in an hour and
twenty-five minutes, and the rain was pelting
down harder than ever. A thick steam rose
from the two fighters, and the ring was a pool of
mud. Repeated falls had turned the men brown,
339


RODNEY STONE
*/
with a horrible mottling of crimson blotches.
Round after round had ended by Crab Wilson
going down, and it was evident, even to my in-
experienced eyes, that he was weakening rapidly.
He leaned heavily upon the two Jews when they
led him to his corner, and he reeled when their
support was withdrawn. Yet his science had,
through long practice, become an automatic
thing with him, so that he stopped and hit with
less power, but with as great accuracy as ever.
Even now a casual observer might have thought
that he had the best of the battle, for the Smith
was far the more terribly marked, but there was
a wild stare in the west-countryman's eyes, and
a strange catch in his breathing, which told us
that it is not the most dangerous blow which
shows upon the surface. A heavy cross-buttock
at the end of the thirty-first round shook the
breath from his body, and he came up for the
thirty-second with the same jaunty gallantry as
ever, but with the dazed expression of a man
whose wind has been utterly smashed.
“He’s got the roly-polies,” cried Belcher.
“You have it your own way now !”
“I’ll vight for a week yet,” gasped Wilson.
“Damme, I like his style,” cried Sir John
Lade. “No shifting, nothing shy, no hugging
nor hauling. It's a shame to let him fight. Take
the brave fellow away!”
340


THE SMITH'S LAST BATTLE
“Take him away! Take him away!” echoed
a hundred voices.
“I won't be taken away ! Who dares say
so 2° cried Wilson, who was back, after another
fall, upon his second's knee.
“His heart won't suffer him to cry enough,”
said General Fitzpatrick. “As his patron, Sir
Lothian, you should direct the sponge to be
thrown up.”
“You think he can’t win it?”
“He is hopelessly beat, sir.”
“You don't know him. He's a glutton of the
first water.”
“A gamer man never pulled his shirt off; but
the other is too strong for him.”
“Well, sir, I believe that he can fight another
ten rounds.” He half turned as he spoke, and I
saw him throw up his left arm with a singular
gesture into the air.
“Cut the ropes | Fair play ! Wait till the
rain stops l” roared a stentorian voice behind
me, and I saw that it came from the big man
with the bottle-green coat. His cry was a signal,
for, like a thunder-clap, there came a hundred
hoarse voices shouting together: “Fair play for
Gloucester! Break the ring ! Break the ring !”
Jackson had called “Time,” and the two mud-
plastered men were already upon their feet, but
the interest had suddenly changed from the fight
341


THE SMITH'S LAST BATTLE
before them, the inner ropes snapped like threads,
and in an instant the ring was a swirling, seeth-
ing mass of figures, whips and sticks falling and
clattering, whilst, face to face, in the middle of
it all, so wedged that they could neither advance
nor retreat, the smith and the west-countryman
continued their long-drawn battle as oblivious of
the chaos raging round them as two bulldogs
would have been who had got each other by the
throat. The driving rain, the cursing and screams
of pain, the swish of the blows, the yelling of
orders and advice, the heavy smell of the damp
cloth—every incident of that scene of my early
youth comes back to me now in my old age as
clearly as if it had been but yesterday.
It was not easy for us to observe anything at
the time, however, for we were ourselves in the
midst of the frantic crowd, swaying about and
carried occasionally quite off our feet, but en-
deavouring to keep our places behind Jackson
and Berkeley Craven, who, with sticks and whips
meeting over their heads, were still calling the
rounds and superintending the fight.
“The ring's broken l” shouted Sir Lothian
Hume. “I appeal to the referee | The fight is
null and void.”
“You villain l” cried my uncle, hotly; “this
is your doing.”
“You have already an account to answer for
343


RODNEY STONE
with me,” said Hume, with his sinister sneer, and
as he spoke he was swept by the rush of the
crowd into my uncle's very arms. The two
men's faces were not more than a few inches
apart, and Sir Lothian's bold eyes had to sink
before the imperious scorn which gleamed coldly
in those of my uncle.
“We will settle our accounts, never fear,
though I degrade myself in meeting such a black-
leg. What is it, Craven?”
“We shall have to declare a draw, Tregel-
lis.”
“My man has the fight in hand.”
“I cannot help it. I cannot attend to my
duties when every moment I am cut over with
a whip or a stick.”
Jackson suddenly made a wild dash into the
crowd, but returned with empty hands and a
rueful face.
“They've stolen my timekeeper's watch,” he
cried. “A little cove snatched it out of my
hand.”
My uncle clapped his hand to his fob.
“Mine has gone also !” he cried.
“Draw it at once, or your man will get hurt,”
said Jackson, and we saw that as the undaunted
smith stood up to Wilson for another round, a
dozen rough fellows were clustering round him
with bludgeons.
344


THE SMITH'S LAST BATTLE
“Do you consent to a draw, Sir Lothian
Hume 2 ”
“I do.”
“And you, Sir Charles?”
“Certainly not.”
“The ring is gone.”
“That is no fault of mine.”
“Well, I see no help for it. As referee I
order that the men be withdrawn, and that the
stakes be returned to their owners.”
“A draw ! A draw !” shrieked every one,
and the crowd in an instant dispersed in every
direction, the pedestrians running to get a good
lead upon the London road, and the Corinthians
in search of their horses and carriages. Harrison
ran over to Wilson's corner and shook him by
the hand.
“I hope I have not hurt you much.”
“I’m hard put to it to stand. How are
you?”
“My head's singin' like a kettle. It was the
rain that helped me.”
“Yes, I thought I had you beat one time. I
never wish a better battle.”
“Nor me either. Good-bye.”
And so those two brave-hearted fellows made
their way amidst the yelping roughs, like two
wounded lions amidst a pack of wolves and jack-
als. I say again that, if the ring has fallen low,
345


RODNEY STONE
it is not in the main the fault of the men who
have done the fighting, but it lies at the door of
the vile crew of ring-side parasites and ruffians,
who are as far below the honest pugilist as the
welsher and the blackleg are below the noble
racehorse which serves them as a pretext for
their villainies.
346


CHAPTER XIX
CLIFFE ROYAL
MY uncle was humanely anxious to get Harri-
son to bed as soon as possible, for the smith, al-
though he laughed at his own injuries, had none
the less been severely punished.
“Don’t you dare ever to ask my leave to fight
again, Jack Harrison,” said his wife, as she
looked ruefully at his battered face. “Why,
it's worse than when you beat Black Baruk; and
if it weren't for your topcoat, I couldn't swear
you were the man who led me to the altar !
If the King of England ask you, I'll never let
you do it more.”
“Well, old lass, I give my davy that I never
will. It's best that I leave fightin' before fight-
in leaves me.” He screwed up his face as he
took a sup from Sir Charles's brandy flask.
“It's fine liquor, sir, but it gets into my cut lips
most cruel. Why, here's John Cummings of
the Friar's Oak Inn, as I'm a sinner, and seekin’
for a mad doctor, to judge by the look of him !”
It was certainly a most singular figure who
was approaching us over the moor. With the
flushed, dazed face of a man who is just recover-
23 347


CLIFFE ROYAL
ever to the voluble self-reproaches of the land-
lord. He had opened the note, and was reading
it with a slight raising of the eyebrows, which
was almost the very highest note in his limited
emotional gamut.
“What make you of this, nephew’’ he asked,
handing it to me.
This was what I read—
“SIR CHARLES TREGELLIS,
“For God's sake, come at once, when
this reaches you, to Cliffe Royal, and tarry as
little as possible upon the way. You will see
me there, and you will hear much which con-
cerns you deeply. I pray you to come as soon
as may be; and until then I remain him whom
you knew as
“JAMES HARRISON.”
“Well, nephew?” asked my uncle.
“Why, sir, I cannot tell what it may mean.”
“Who gave it to you, sirrah?”
“It was young Jim Harrison himself, sir,”
said the landlord, “though indeed I scarce knew
him at first, for he looked like his own ghost.
He was so eager that it should reach you that he
would not leave me until the horse was har-
nessed and I started upon my way. There was
one note for you and one for Sir Lothian Hume,
349


RODNEY STONE
and I wish to God he had chosen a better mes-
senger!”
“This is a mystery indeed,” said my uncle,
bending his brows over the note. “What
should he be doing at that house of ill-omen?
And why does he sign himself ‘him whom you
knew as Jim Harrison?” By what other style
should I know him? Harrison, you can throw
a light upon this. You, Mrs. Harrison; I see
by your face that you understand it.”
“Maybe we do, Sir Charles; but we are plain
folk, my Jack and I, and we go as far as we see
our way, and when we don't see our way any
longer, we just stop. We've been goin' this
twenty year, but now we'll draw aside and let
our betters get to the front; so if you wish to
find what that note means, I can only advise
you to do what you are asked, and to drive over
to Cliffe Royal, where you will find out.”
My uncle put the note into his pocket.
“I don't move until I have seen you safely in
the hands of the surgeon, Harrison.”
“Never mind for me, sir. The missus and me
can drive down to Crawley in the gig, and a yard
of stickin' plaster and a raw steak will soon set
me to rights.”
But my uncle was by no means to be per-
suaded, and he drove the pair into Crawley,
where the smith was left under the charge of his
350


CLIFFE ROYAL
wife in the very best quarters which money
could procure. Then, after a hasty luncheon,
we turned the mares' heads for the south.
“This ends my connection with the ring,
nephew,” said my uncle. “I perceive that there
is no possible means by which it can be kept
pure from roguery. I have been cheated and be-
fooled; but a man learns wisdom at last, and never
again do I give countenance to a prize-fight.”
Had I been older or he less formidable, I
might have said what was in my heart, and
begged him to give up other things also—to
come out from those shallow circles in which he
lived, and to find some work that was worthy of
his strong brain and his good heart. But the
thought had hardly formed itself in my mind be-
fore he had dropped his serious vein, and was
chatting away about some new silver-mounted
harness which he intended to spring upon the
Mall, and about the match for a thousand guin-
eas which he meant to make between his filly
Ethelberta and Lord Doncaster's famous three-
year-old Aurelius.
We had got as far as Whiteman's Green,
which is rather more than midway between
Crawley Down and Friar's Oak, when, looking
backwards, I saw far down the road the gleam
of the sun upon a high yellow carriage. Sir
Lothian Hume was following us.
351


RODNEY STONE
“He has had the same summons as we, and
is bound for the same destination,” said my
uncle, glancing over his shoulder at the distant
barouche. “We are both wanted at Cliffe
Royal—we, the two survivors of that black
business. And it is Jim Harrison of all people
who calls us there. Nephew, I have had an
eventful life, but I feel as if the very strangest
scene of it were waiting for me among those
trees.”
He whipped up the mares, and now from the
curve of the road we could see the high dark
pinnacles of the old Manor-house shooting up
above the ancient oaks which ring it round. The
sight of it, with its blood-stained and ghost-
blasted reputation, would in itself have been
enough to send a thrill through my nerves; but
when the words of my uncle made me suddenly
realize that this strange summons was indeed
for the two men who were concerned in that
old-world tragedy, and that it was the playmate
of my youth who had sent it, I caught my
breath as I seemed vaguely to catch a glimpse
of some portentous thing forming itself in front
of us. The rusted gates between the crumbling
heraldic pillars were folded back, and my uncle
flicked the mares impatiently as we flew up the
weed-grown avenue, until he pulled them on
their haunches before the time-blotched steps.
352


CLIFFE ROYAL
The front door was open, and Boy Jim was
waiting there to meet us.
But it was a different Boy Jim from him whom
I had known and loved. There was a change in
him somewhere, a change so marked that it was
the first thing that I noticed, and yet so subtle
that I could not put words to it. He was not
better dressed than of old, for I well knew the
old brown suit that he wore. He was not less
comely, for his training had left him the very
model of what a man should be. And yet there
was a change, a touch of dignity in the expres-
sion, a suggestion of confidence in the bearing
which seemed, now that it was supplied, to be
the one thing which had been needed to give
him harmony and finish. Somehow, in spite
of his prowess, his old school name of “Boy”
had clung very naturally to him, until that
instant when I saw him standing in his self-
contained and magnificent manhood in the door-
way of the ancient house. A woman stood
beside him, her hand resting upon his shoulder,
and I saw that it was Miss Hinton of Anstey
Cross.
“You remember me, Sir Charles Tregellis,”
said she, coming forward, as we sprang down
from the curricle.
My uncle looked hard at her with a puzzled
face.
353


RODNEY STONE
“I do not think that I have the privilege,
madame. And yet 25
“Polly Hinton, of the Haymarket. You
surely cannot have forgotten Polly Hinton.”
“Forgotten Why, we have mourned for
you in Fops' Alley for more years than I care to
think of But what in the name of wonde 52
“I was privately married, and I retired from
the stage. I want you to forgive me for taking
Jim away from you last night.”
“It was you, then?”
“I had a stronger claim even than you could
have. You were his patron; I was his mother.”
She drew his head down to hers as she spoke,
and there, with their cheeks together, were the
two faces, the one stamped with the waning
beauty of womanhood, the other with the wax-
ing strength of man, and yet so alike in the dark
eyes, the blue-black hair and the broad white
brow, that I marvelled that I had never read
her secret on the first days that I had seen them
together. “Yes,” she cried, “he is my own
boy, and he saved me from what is worse than
death, as your nephew Rodney could tell you.
Yet my lips were sealed, and it was only last
night that I could tell him that it was his
mother whom he had brought back by his gen-
tleness and his patience into the sweetness of
life.”
354


RODNEY STONE
I caught a glimpse of a bottle-green coat which
told me who was his travelling companion.
“Well,” he continued, looking round him with
an insolent stare, “I should vastly like to know
who has had the insolence to give me so press-
ing an invitation to visit my own house, and
what in the devil you mean by daring to tres-
pass upon my grounds?”
“I promise you that you will understand this
and a good deal more before we part, Sir Lo-
thian,” said Jim, with a curious smile playing
over his face. “If you will follow me, I will
endeavour to make it all clear to you.”
With his mother's hand in his own, he led us
into that ill-omened room where the cards were
still heaped upon the sideboard, and the dark
shadow lurked in the corner of the ceiling.
“Now, sirrah, your explanation 1" cried Sir
Lothian, standing with his arms folded by the
door.
“My first explanations I owe to you, Sir
Charles,” said Jim; and as I listened to his voice
and noted his manner, I could not but admire
the effect which the company of her whom he
now knew to be his mother had had upon a rude
country lad. “I wish to tell you what occurred
last night.”
“I will tell it for you, Jim,” said his mother.
“You must know, Sir Charles, that though my
356


CLIFFE ROYAL
son knew nothing of his parents, we were both
alive, and had never lost sight of him. For my
part, I let him have his own way in going to
London and in taking up this challenge. It was
only yesterday that it came to the ears of his
father, who would have none of it. He was in
the weakest health, and his wishes were not to
be gainsayed. He ordered me to go at once and
to bring his son to his side. I was at my wit’s
end, for I was sure that Jim would never come
unless a substitute were provided for him. I
went to the kind, good couple who had brought
him up, and I told them how matters stood.
Mrs. Harrison loved Jim as if he had been her
own son, and her husband loved mine, so they
came to my help, and may God bless them for
their kindness to a distracted wife and mother !
Harrison would take Jim's place if Jim would
go to his father. Then I drove to Crawley. I
found out which was Jim's room, and I spoke to
him through the window, for I was sure that
those who had backed him would not let him
go. I told him that I was his mother. I told
him who was his father. I said that I had my
phaeton ready, and that he might, for all I knew,
be only in time to receive the dying blessing of
that parent whom he had never known. Still
the boy would not go until he had my assurance
that Harrison would take his place.”
357


RODNEY STONE
“Why did he not leave a message with
Belcher ?”
“My head was in a whirl, Sir Charles. To
find a father and a mother, a new name and a
new rank in a few minutes might turn a stronger
brain than ever mine was. My mother begged
me to come with her, and I went. The phaeton
was waiting, but we had scarcely started when
some fellow seized the horses' heads, and a
couple of ruffians attacked us. One of them I
beat over the head with the butt of the whip, so
that he dropped the cudgel with which he was
about to strike me; then lashing the horse, I
shook off the others and got safely away. I
cannot imagine who they were or why they
should molest us.”
“Perhaps Sir Lothian Hume could tell you,”
said my uncle.
Our enemy said nothing; but his little grey
eyes slid round with a most murderous glance in
our direction.
“After I had come here and seen my father I
went down 5%
My uncle stopped him with a cry of astonish-
ment.
“What did you say, young man? You came
here and you saw your father—here at Cliffe
Royal?”
“Yes, sir.”
858


CLIFFE ROYAL
My uncle had turned very pale.
“In God's name, then, tell us who your father
is l’”
Jim made no answer save to point over our
shoulders, and glancing round, we became
aware that two people had entered the room
through the door which led to the bedroom stair.
The one I recognized in an instant. That im-
passive, mask-like face and demure manner
could only belong to Ambrose, the former valet
of my uncle. The other was a very different
and even more singular figure. He was a tall
man, clad in a dark dressing-gown, and leaning
heavily upon a stick. His long, bloodless coun-
tenance was so thin and so white that it gave
the strangest illusion of transparency. Only
within the folds of a shroud have I ever seen so
wan a face. The brindled hair and the rounded
back gave the impression of advanced age, and it
was only the dark brows and the bright alert
eyes glancing out from beneath them which
made me doubt whether it was really an old
man who stood before us.
There was an instant of silence, broken by a
deep oath from Sir Lothian Hume–
“Lord Avon, by God!” he cried.
“Very much at your service, gentlemen,” an-
swered the strange figure in the dressing-gown.
359


LORD AWON
“Surely, Ned, you have a greeting for me
after all these years?”
“You believed me to have done this deed,
Charles. I read it in your eyes and in your
manner on that terrible morning. You never
asked me for an explanation. You never con-
sidered how impossible such a crime must be for
a man of my character. At the first breath of
suspicion you, my intimate friend, the man who
knew me best, set me down as a thief and a
murderer.”
“No, no, Ned.”
“You did, Charles; I read it in your eyes.
And so it was that when I wished to leave that
which was most precious to me in safe hands I
had to pass you over and to place him in the
charge of the one man who from the first never
doubted my innocence. Better a thousand times
that my son should be brought up in a humble
station and in ignorance of his unfortunate father,
than that he should learn to share the doubts and
suspicions of his equals.”
“Then he is really your son 1" cried my uncle,
staring at Jim in amazement.
For answer the man stretched out his long
withered arm, and placed a gaunt hand upon the
shoulder of the actress, whilst she looked up at
him with love in her eyes.
“I married, Charles, and I kept it secret from
361


RODNEY STONE
my friends, for I had chosen my wife outside our
own circles. You know the foolish pride which
has always been the strongest part of my nature.
I could not bear to avow that which I had done.
It was this neglect upon my part which led to an
estrangement between us, and drove her into
habits for which it is I who am to blame and not
she. Yet on account of these same habits I took
the child from her and gave her an allowance on
condition that she did not interfere with it. I
had feared that the boy might receive evil from
her, and had never dreamed in my blindness that
she might get good from him. But I have
learned in my miserable life, Charles, that there
is a power which fashions things for us, though
we may strive to thwart it, and that we are in
truth driven by an unseen current towards a cer-
tain goal, however much we may deceive our-
selves into thinking that it is our own sails and
oars which are speeding us upon our way.”
My eyes had been upon the face of my uncle
as he listened, but now as I turned them from
him they fell once more upon the thin, wolfish
face of Sir Lothian Hume. He stood near the
window, his grey silhouette thrown up against
the square of dusty glass; and I have never seen
such a play of evil passions, of anger, of jealousy,
of disappointed greed upon a human face before.
“Am I to understand,” said he, in a loud,
362


RODNEY STONE
lic exposure of him, but that he must never again
in his life lay his hand upon a card, and that the
money which he had won must be returned next
morning with an explanation. It would be so-
cial ruin, he protested. I answered that he must
take the consequence of his own deed. Then and
there I burned the papers which he had won from
me, and I replaced in a canvas bag which lay
upon the table all the gold pieces. I would have
left the room without another word, but he clung
to me, and tore the ruffle from my wrist in his
attempt to hold me back, and to prevail upon
me to promise to say nothing to you or Sir Lo-
thian Hume. It was his despairing cry, when he
found that I was proof against all his entreaties,
which reached your ears, Charles, and caused you
to open your chamber door and to see me as I
returned to my room.”
My uncle drew a long sigh of relief.
“Nothing could be clearer !” he murmured.
“In the morning I came, as you remember, to
your room, and I returned your money. I did
the same to Sir Lothian Hume. I said nothing
of my reasons for doing so, for I found that I
could not bring myself to confess our disgrace to
you. Then came the horrible discovery which
has darkened my life, and which was as great a
mystery to me as it has been to you. I saw that
I was suspected, and I saw, also, that even if I
370


LORD AVON
were to clear myself, it could only be done by a
public confession of the infamy of my brother.
I shrank from it, Charles. Any personal suffer-
ing seemed to me to be better than to bring pub-
lic shame upon a family which has held an un-
tarnished record through so many centuries. I
fled from my trial, therefore, and disappeared
from the world.
“But, first of all, it was necessary that I should
make arrangements for the wife and the son, of
whose existence you and my other friends were ig-
norant. It is with shame, Mary, that I confess
it, and I acknowledge to you that the blame of all
the consequences rests with me rather than with
you. At the time there were reasons, now hap-
pily long gone past, which made me determine
that the son was better apart from the mother,
whose absence at that age he would not miss.
I would have taken you into my confidence,
Charles, had it not been that your suspicions had
wounded me deeply—for I did not at that time
understand how strong the reasons were which
had prejudiced you against me.
“On the evening after the tragedy I fled to
London, and arranged that my wife should have
a fitting allowance on condition that she did not
interfere with the child. I had, as you remem-
ber, had much to do with Harrison, the prize-
fighter, and I had often had occasion to admire
371


RODNEY STONE
his simple and honest nature. I took my boy
to him now, and I found him, as I expected, in-
credulous as to my guilt, and ready to assist me
in any way. At his wife's entreaty he had just
retired from the ring, and was uncertain how he
should employ himself. I was able to fit him up
as a smith, on condition that he should ply his
trade at the village of Friar's Oak. My agree-
ment was that James was to be brought up as
their nephew, and that he should know nothing
of his unhappy parents.
“You will ask me why I selected Friar's Oak.
It was because I had already chosen my place
of concealment; and if I could not see my boy,
it was, at least, some consolation to know that he
was near me. You are aware that this mansion
is one of the oldest in England; but you are not
aware that it has been built with a very special
eye to concealment, that there are no less than
two habitable secret chambers, and that the outer
or thicker walls are tunnelled into passages.
The existence of these rooms has always been a
family secret, though it was one which I valued
so little that it was only the chance of my seldom
using the house which had prevented me from
pointing them out to some friend. Now I found
that a secure retreat was provided for me in my
extremity. I stole down to my own mansion,
entered it at night, and, leaving all that was
372


RODNEY STONE
“I do not blame you, Mary. It is possible
that I should have done so. He went to Lon-
don, and he tried to open a career for himself by
his own strength and courage. How many of
our ancestors have done the same, save only that
a sword-hilt lay in their closed hands; but of
them all I do not know that any have carried
themselves more gallantly l”
“That I dare swear,” said my uncle, heartily.
“And then, when Harrison at last returned, I
learned that my son was actually matched to
fight in a public prize-battle. That would not
do, Charles ! It was one thing to fight as you
and I have fought in our youth, and it was
another to compete for a purse of gold.”
“My dear friend, I would not for the
world 25
“Of course you would not, Charles. You
chose the best man, and how could you do other-
wise ? But it would not do ! I determined that
the time had come when I should reveal myself
to my son, the more so as there were many signs
that my most unnatural existence had seriously
weakened my health. Chance, or shall I not
rather say Providence, had at last made clear all
that had been dark, and given me the means of
establishing my innocence. My wife went yes-
terday to bring my boy at last to the side of his
unfortunate father.”
374


LORD AVON
There was silence for some time, and then it
was my uncle's voice which broke it.
“You’ve been the most ill-used man in the
world, Ned,” said he, “Please God we shall
have many years yet in which to make up to
you for it. But, after all, it seems to me that
we are as far as ever from learning how your un-
fortunate brother met his death.”
“For eighteen years it was as much a mystery
to me as to you, Charles. But now at last the
guilt is manifest. Stand forward, Ambrose, and
tell your story as frankly and as fully as you have
told it to me.”
375


THE VALET'S STORY
surprising as it may seem, is the absolute and
undeniable truth concerning the mysterious death
of Captain Barrington.
“It may seem impossible to you that one in
my humble walk of life should bear a deadly and
implacable hatred against a man in the posi-
tion of Captain Barrington. You think that the
gulf between is too wide. I can tell you, gentle-
men, that the gulf which can be bridged by un-
lawful love can be spanned also by an unlawful
hatred, and that upon the day when this young
man stole from me all that made my life worth
living, I vowed to Heaven that I should take
from him that foul life of his, though the deed
would cover but the tiniest fraction of the debt
which he owed me. I see that you look askance
at me, Sir Charles Tregellis, but you should pray
to God, sir, that you may never have the chance
of finding out what you would yourself be capa-
ble of in the same position.”
It was a wonder to all of us to see this man's
fiery nature breaking suddenly through the arti-
ficial constraints with which he held it in check.
His short dark hair seemed to bristle upwards,
his eyes glowed with the intensity of his passion,
and his face expressed a malignity of hatred
which neither the death of his enemy nor the
lapse of years could mitigate. The demure ser-
vant was gone, and there stood in his place a
377


RODNEY STONE
deep and dangerous man, one who might be an
ardent lover or a most vindictive foe.
“We were about to be married, she and I,
when some black chance threw him across our
path. I do not know by what base deceptions
he lured her away from me. I have heard that
she was only one of many, and that he was an
adept at the art. It was done before ever I
knew the danger, and she was left with her
broken heart and her ruined life to return to
that home into which she had brought disgrace
and misery. I only saw her once. She told me
that her seducer had burst out a-laughing when
she had reproached him for his perfidy, and I
swore to her that his heart's blood should pay
me for that laugh.
“I was a valet at the time, but I was not yet
in the service of Lord Avon. I applied for and
gained that position with the one idea that it
might give me an opportunity of settling my
accounts with his younger brother. And yet
my chance was a terribly long time coming, for
many months had passed before the visit to
Cliffe Royal gave me the opportunity which I
longed for by day and dreamed of by night.
When it did come, however, it came in a fashion
which was more favourable to my plans than
anything that I had ever ventured to hope for.
“Lord Avon was of opinion that no one but
378


RODNEY STONE
So I was, but it was a fever which only one
medicine could assuage.
“Then at last, very early in the morning, I
heard them push back their chairs, and I knew
that their game had at last come to an end.
When I entered the room to receive my orders,
I found that Captain Barrington had already
stumbled off to bed. The others had also re-
tired, and my master was sitting alone at the
table, with his empty bottle and the scattered
cards in front of him. He ordered me angrily
to my room, and this time I obeyed him.
“My first care was to provide myself with a
weapon. I knew that if I were face to face
with him I could tear his throat out, but I must
so arrange that the fashion of his death should
be a noiseless one. There was a hunting trophy
in the hall, and from it I took a straight heavy
knife which I sharpened upon my boot. Then
I stole to my room, and sat waiting upon the
side of my bed. I had made up my mind what
I should do. There would be little satisfaction
in killing him if he was not to know whose hand
had struck the blow, or which of his sins it came
to avenge. Could I but bind him and gag him
in his drunken sleep, then a prick or two of my
dagger would arouse him to listen to what I had
to say to him. I pictured the look in his eyes
as the haze of sleep cleared slowly away from
380


RODNEY STONE
Barrington was standing by the dressing-table
with his coat and vest off. A large pile of sov-
ereigns, and several slips of paper were lying be-
fore him, and he was counting over his gambling
gains. His face was flushed, and he was heavy
from want of sleep and from wine. It rejoiced
me to see it, for it meant that his slumber would
be deep, and that all would be made easy for me.
“I was still watching him, when of a sudden
I saw him start, and a terrible expression come
upon his face. For an instant my heart stood
still, for I feared that he had in some way divined
my presence. And then I heard the voice of
my master within. I could not see the door by
which he had entered, nor could I see him where
he stood, but I heard all that he had to say. As
I watched the captain's face flush fiery-red, and
then turn to a livid white as he listened to those
bitter words which told him of his infamy, my
revenge was sweeter—far sweeter—than my
most pleasant dreams had ever pictured it. I
saw my master approach the dressing-table, hold
the papers in the flame of the candle, throw their
charred ashes into the grate, and sweep the
golden pieces into a small brown canvas bag.
Then, as he turned to leave the room, the cap-
tain seized him by the wrist, imploring him, by
the memory of their mother, to have mercy upon
him; and I loved my master as I saw him drag
382


THE VALET'S STORY
his sleeve from the grasp of the clutching fin-
gers, and leave the stricken wretch grovelling
upon the floor.
“And now I was left with a difficult point
to settle, for it was hard for me to say whether
it was better that I should do that which I had
come for, or whether, by holding this man's
guilty secret, I might not have in my hand a
keener and more deadly weapon than my mas-
ter's hunting-knife. I was sure that Lord Avon
could not and would not expose him. I knew
your sense of family pride too well, my lord, and
I was certain that his secret was safe in your
hands. But I both could and would; and then,
when his life had been blasted, and he had been
hounded from his regiment and from his clubs,
it would be time, perhaps, for me to deal in some
other way with him.”
“Ambrose, you are a black villain,” said my
uncle.
“We all have our own feelings, Sir Charles;
and you will permit me to say that a serving-
man may resent an injury as much as a gentle-
man, though the redress of the duel is denied
to him. But I am telling you frankly, at Lord
Avon's request, all that I thought and did upon
that night, and I shall continue to do so, even if I
am not fortunate enough to win your approval.
“When Lord Avon had left him, the captain
383


RODNEY STONE
remained for some time in a kneeling attitude,
with his face sunk upon a chair. Then he rose,
and paced slowly up and down the room, his
chin sunk upon his breast. Every now and
then he would pluck at his hair, or shake his
clenched hands in the air; and I saw the moist-
ure glisten upon his brow. For a time I lost
sight of him, and I heard him opening drawer
after drawer, as though he were in search of
something. Then he stood over by his dressing-
table again, with his back turned to me. His
head was thrown a little back, and he had both
hands up to the collar of his shirt, as though he
were striving to undo it. And then there was
a gush as if a ewer had been upset, and down he
sank upon the ground, with his head in the
corner, twisted round at so strange an angle to
his shoulders that one glimpse of it told me that
my man was slipping swiftly from the clutch in
which I had fancied that I held him. I slid my
panel, and was in the room in an instant. His
eyelids still quivered, and it seemed to me, as
my gaze met his glazing eyes, that I could read
both recognition and surprise in them. I laid
my knife upon the floor, and I stretched myself
out beside him, that I might whisper in his ear
one or two little things of which I wished to re-
mind him; but even as I did so, he gave a gasp
and was gone.
384


THE VALET'S STORY
“It is singular that I, who had never feared
him in life, should be frightened at him now,
and yet when I looked at him, and saw that all
was motionless save the creeping stain upon the
carpet, I was seized with a sudden foolish spasm
of terror, and, catching up my knife, I fled
swiftly and silently back to my own room, clos-
ing the panels behind me. It was only when
I had reached it that I found that in my mad
haste I had carried away, not the hunting-knife
which I had taken with me, but the bloody
razor which had dropped from the dead man's
hand. This I concealed where no one has ever
discovered it; but my fears would not allow me
to go back for the other, as I might perhaps have
done, had I foreseen how terribly its presence
might tell against my master. And that, Lady
Avon and gentlemen, is an exact and honest ac-
count of how Captain Barrington came by his end.”
“And how was it,” asked my uncle, angrily,
“that you have allowed an innocent man to be
persecuted all these years, when a word from
you might have saved him?”
“Because I had every reason to believe, Sir
Charles, that that would be most unwelcome to
Lord Avon. How could I tell all this without
revealing the family scandal which he was so
anxious to conceal? I confess that at the be-
ginning I did not tell him what I had seen, and
385


THE WALET'S STORY
The tramp of several heavy footsteps rever-
berating through the old house broke in suddenly
upon Lord Avon's words. His wan face turned
even a shade greyer as he heard it, and he looked
piteously to his wife and son.
“They will arrest me !” he cried. “I must
submit to the degradation of an arrest.”
“This way, Sir James; this way,” said the
harsh tones of Sir Lothian Hume from without.
“I do not need to be shown the way in a
house where I have drunk many a bottle of good
claret,” cried a deep voice in reply; and there in
the doorway stood the broad figure of Squire
Ovington in his buckskins and top-boots, a rid-
ing-crop in his hand. Sir Lothian Hume was at
his elbow, and I saw the faces of two country
constables peeping over his shoulders.
“Lord Avon,” said the squire, “as a magistrate
of the county of Sussex, it is my duty to tell you
that a warrant is held against you for the wilful
murder of your brother, Captain Barrington, in
the year 1786.”
“I am ready to answer the charge.”
“This I tell you as a magistrate. But as a
man, and the Squire of Rougham Grange, I'm
right glad to see you, Ned, and here's my hand
on it, and never will I believe that a good Tory
like yourself, and a man who could show his
horse's tail to any field in the whole Down
387


RODNEY STONE
county, would ever be capable of so vile an
act.”
“You do me justice, James,” said Lord Avon,
clasping the broad, brown hand which the coun-
try squire had held out to him. “I am as inno-
cent as you are ; and I can prove it.”
“Damned glad I am to hear it, Ned ! That
is to say, Lord Avon, that any defence which
you may have to make will be decided upon
by your peers and by the laws of your coun-
try.”
“Until which time,” added Sir Lothian Hume,
“a stout door and a good lock will be the best
guarantee that Lord Avon will be there when
called for.”
The squire's weather-stained face flushed to a
deeper red as he turned upon the Londoner.
“Are you the magistrate of a county, sir?”
“I have not the honour, Sir James.”
“Then how dare you advise a man who has
sat on the bench for nigh twenty years When
I am in doubt, sir, the law provides me with a
clerk with whom I may confer, and I ask no
other assistance.”
“You take too high a tone in this matter, Sir
James. I am not accustomed to be taken to task
so sharply.”
“Nor am I accustomed, sir, to be interfered
with in my official duties. I speak as a magis-
- 388


THE VALET'S STORY
trate, Sir Lothian, but I am always ready to sus-
tain my opinions as a man.”
Sir Lothian bowed.
“You will allow me to observe, sir, that I have
personal interests of the highest importance in-
volved in this matter. I have every reason to
believe that there is a conspiracy afoot which
will affect my position as heir to Lord Avon's
titles and estates. I desire his safe custody in
order that this matter may be cleared up, and I
call upon you, as a magistrate, to execute your
warrant.”
“Plague take it, Ned !” cried the squire, “I
would that my clerk Johnson were here, for I
would deal as kindly by you as the law allows;
and yet I am, as you hear, called upon to secure
your person.”
“Permit me to suggest, sir,” said my uncle,
“that so long as he is under the personal super-
vision of the magistrate, he may be said to be
under the care of the law, and that this condition
will be fulfilled if he is under the roof of Rough-
am Grange.”
“Nothing could be better,” cried the squire,
heartily. “You will stay with me, Ned, until
this matter blows over. In other words, Lord
Avon, I make myself responsible, as the repre-
sentative of the law, that you are held in safe
custody until your person may be required of me.”
389


THE VALET'S STORY
“You are right, Ambrose,” my uncle answered.
“Lorimer does his best, but I have never been
able to fill your place.”
“I should be proud to serve you, sir; but you
must acknowledge that Lord Avon has the prior
claim. If he will release me—”
“You may go, Ambrose; you may go!”
cried Lord Avon. “You are an excellent ser-
vant, but your presence has become painful to
me.”
“Thank you, Ned,” said my uncle. “But you
must not leave me so suddenly again, Ambrose.”
“Permit me to explain the reason, sir. I had
determined to give you notice when we reached
Brighton; but as we drove from the village that
day, I caught a glimpse of a lady passing in a
phaeton between whom and Lord Avon I was
well aware there was a close intimacy, although
I was not certain that she was actually his wife.
Her presence there confirmed me in my opinion
that he was in hiding at Cliffe Royal, and I
dropped from your curricle and followed her at
once, in order to lay the matter before her, and
explain how very necessary it was that Lord
Avon should see me.”
“Well, I forgive you for your desertion, Am-
brose,” said my uncle; “and,” he added, “I
should be vastly obliged to you if you would re-
arrange my tie.”
391


CHAPTER XXII
THE END
SIR JAMES OVINGTON's carriage was waiting
without, and in it the Avon family, so tragically
separated and so strangely re-united, were borne
away to the squire's hospitable home. When
they had gone, my uncle mounted his curricle,
and drove Ambrose and myself to the village.
“We had best see your father at once,
nephew,” said he, “Sir Lothian and his man
started some time ago. I should be sorry if
there should be any hitch in our meeting.”
For my part, I was thinking of our opponent's
deadly reputation as a duellist, and I suppose
that my features must have betrayed my feel-
ings, for my uncle began to laugh.
“Why, nephew,” said he, “you look as if you
were walking behind my coffin. It is not my
first affair, and I dare bet that it will not be my
last. When I fight near town I usually fire a
hundred or so in Manton's back shop, but I dare
say I can find my way to his waistcoat. But I
confess that I am somewhat accablé, by all that
has befallen us. To think of my dear old friend
being not only alive, but innocent as well! And
392


THE END
that he should have such a strapping son and
heir to carry on the race of Avon This will be
the last blow to Hume, for I know that the Jews
have given him rope on the score of his expec-
tations. And you, Ambrose, that you should
break out in such a way!”
Of all the amazing things which had happened,
this seemed to have impressed my uncle most,
and he recurred to it again and again. That a
man whom he had come to regard as a machine
for tying cravats and brewing chocolate should
suddenly develop fiery human passions was in-
deed a prodigy. If his silver razor-heater had
taken to evil ways he could not have been more
astounded.
We were still a hundred yards from the cot-
tage when I saw the tall, green-coated Mr. Cor-
coran striding down the garden path. My
father was waiting for us at the door with an
expression of subdued delight upon his face.
“Happy to serve you in any way, Sir Charles,”
said he. “We’ve arranged it for to-morrow at
seven on Ditchling Common.”
“I wish these things could be brought off a
little later in the day,” said my uncle. “One
has either to rise at a perfectly absurd hour, or
else to neglect one's toilet.”
“They are stopping across the road at the Fri-
ar's Oak Inn, and if you would wish it later 25
393


RODNEY STONE
“No, no; I shall make the effort. Ambrose,
you will bring up the batterie de toilette at five.”
“I don't know whether you would care to
use my barkers,” said my father. “I’ve had 'em
in fourteen actions, and up to thirty yards you
couldn't wish a better tool.”
“Thank you, I have my duelling pistols under
the seat. See that the triggers are oiled, Am-
brose, for I love a light pull. Ah, sister Mary,
I have brought your boy back to you, none the
worse, I hope, for the dissipations of town.”
I need not tell you how my dear mother wept
over me and fondled me, for you who have
mothers will know for yourselves, and you who
have not will never understand how warm and
snug the home nest can be. How I had chafed
and longed for the wonders of town, and yet,
now that I had seen more than my wildest dreams
had ever deemed possible, my eyes had rested
upon nothing which was so sweet and so restful
as our own little sitting-room, with its terra-
cotta-coloured walls, and those trifles which are
so insignificant in themselves, and yet so rich in
memories—the blow-fish from the Moluccas, the
narwhal's horn from the Arctic, and the picture
of the Ca Ira, with Lord Hotham in chase !
How cheery, too, to see at one side of the shining
grate my father with his pipe and his merry red
face, and on the other my mother with her fin-
394


THE END
gers ever turning and darting with her knitting-
needles | As I looked at them I marvelled that
I could ever have longed to leave them, or that
I could bring myself to leave them again.
But leave them I must, and that speedily, as I
learned amidst the boisterous congratulations of
my father and the tears of my mother. He had
himself been appointed to the Cato, 64, with post
rank, whilst a note had come from Lord Nelson
at Portsmouth to say that a vacancy was open
for me if I should present myself at once.
“And your mother has your sea-chest all
ready, my lad, and you can travel down with me
to-morrow; for if you are to be one of Nelson's
men, you must show him that you are worthy
Of it.”
“All the Stones have been in the sea-service,”
said my mother, apologetically to my uncle, “and
it is a great chance that he should enter under
Lord Nelson's own patronage. But we can
never forget your kindness, Charles, in showing
our dear Rodney something of the world.”
“On the contrary, sister Mary,” said my uncle,
graciously, “your son has been an excellent com-
panion to me—so much so that I fear that I am
open to the charge of having neglected my dear
Fidelio. I trust that I bring him back somewhat
more polished than I found him. It would be
folly to call him distingué, but he is at least un-
26 395


THE END
cravats, their high collars, their dangling seals,
and they vanish into those dark wings from which
there is no return. The world has outgrown
them, and there is no place now for their strange
fashions, their practical jokes, and carefully culti-
vated eccentricities. And yet behind this outer
veiling of folly, with which they so carefully
draped themselves, they were often men of strong
character and robust personality. The languid
loungers of St. James's were also the yachtsmen
of the Solent, the fine riders of the shires, and
the hardy fighters in many a wayside battle and
many a morning frolic. Wellington picked his
best officers from amongst them. They conde-
scended occasionally to poetry or oratory; and
Byron, Charles James Fox, Sheridan, and Castle-
reagh, preserved some reputation amongst them,
in spite of their publicity. I cannot think how
the historian of the future can hope to under-
stand them, when I, who knew one of them so
well, and bore his blood in my veins, could never
quite tell how much of him was real, and how
much was due to the affectations which he had
cultivated so long that they had ceased to
deserve the name. Through the chinks of that
armour of folly I have sometimes thought that
I had caught a glimpse of a good and true
man within, and it pleases me to hope that I
was right.
397


RODNEY STONE
It was destined that the exciting incidents of
that day were even now not at an end. I had
retired early to rest, but it was impossible for me
to sleep, for my mind would turn to Boy Jim
and to the extraordinary change in his position
and prospects. I was still turning and tossing
when I heard the sound of flying hoofs coming
down the London road, and immediately after-
wards the grating of wheels as they pulled up in
front of the inn. My window chanced to be
open, for it was a fresh spring night, and I heard
the creak of the inn door, and a voice asking
whether Sir Lothian Hume was within. At the
name I sprang from my bed, and I was in time
to see three men, who had alighted from the
carriage, file into the lighted hall. The two
horses were left standing, with the glare of the
open door falling upon their brown shoulders and
patient heads.
Ten minutes may have passed, and then I
heard the clatter of many steps, and a knot of
men came clustering through the door.
“You need not employ violence,” said a harsh,
clear voice. “On whose suit is it?”
“Several suits, sir. They 'eld over in the
'opes that you’d pull off the fight this mornin'.
Total amounts is twelve thousand pound.”
“Look here, my man, I have a very impor-
tant appointment for seven o'clock to-morrow.
398


THE END
I'll give you fifty pounds if you will leave me
until then.”
“Couldn't do it, sir, really. It's more than
our places as sheriff's officers is worth.”
In the yellow glare of the carriage-lamp I saw
the baronet look up at our windows, and if ha-
tred could have killed, his eyes would have been
as deadly as his pistol.
“I can't mount the carriage unless you free
my hands,” said he.
“’Old 'ard, Bill, for 'e looks wicious. Let
go o' one arm at a time! Ah, would you
then?”
“Corcoran | Corcoran l” screamed a voice, and
I saw a plunge, a struggle, and one frantic figure
breaking its way from the rest. Then came a
heavy blow, and down he fell in the middle of
the moonlit road, flapping and jumping among
the dust like a trout new landed.
“He’s napped it this time ! Get 'im by the
wrists, Jim | Now, all together !”
He was hoisted up like a bag of flour, and fell
with a brutal thud into the bottom of the car-
riage. The three men sprang in after him, a
whip whistled in the darkness, and I had seen
the last that I or any one else, save some chari-
table visitor to a debtors' gaol, was ever again
destined to see of Sir Lothian Hume, the once
fashionable Corinthian.
399


RODNEY STONE
Lord Avon lived for two years longer—long
enough, with the help of Ambrose, to fully es-
tablish his innocence of the horrible crime, in
the shadow of which he had lived so long.
What he could not clear away, however, was the
effect of those years of morbid and unnatural life
spent in the hidden chambers of the old house;
and it was only the devotion of his wife and of
his son which kept the thin and flickering flame
of his life alight. She whom I had known as the
play actress of Anstey Cross became the dowager
Lady Avon; whilst Boy Jim, as dear to me now
as when we harried birds' nests and tickled trout
together, is now Lord Avon, beloved by his ten-
antry, the finest sportsman and the most popular
man from the north of the Weald to the Chan-
nel. He was married to the second daughter of
Sir James Ovington; and as I have seen three
of his grandchildren within the week, I fancy
that if any of Sir Lothian's descendants have
their eye upon the property, they are likely to
be as disappointed as their ancestor was before
them. The old house of Cliffe Royal has been
pulled down, owing to the terrible family asso-
ciations which hung round it, and a beautiful
modern building sprang up in its place. The
lodge which stood by the Brighton Road was
so dainty with its trellis-work and its rose
bushes that I was not the only visitor who de-
400


THE END
clared that I had rather be the owner of it than
of the great house amongst the trees. There for
many years in a happy and peaceful old age
lived Jack Harrison and his wife, receiving back
in the sunset of their lives the loving care which
they had themselves bestowed. Never again did
Champion Harrison throw his leg over the ropes
of a twenty-four-foot ring; but the story of the
great battle between the smith and the west-
countryman is still familiar to old ring-goers,
and nothing pleased him better than to re-fight
it all, round by round, as he sat in the sunshine
under his rose-girt porch. But if he heard the
tap of his wife's stick approaching him, his talk
would break off at once into the garden and its
prospects, for she was still haunted by the fear
that he would some day go back to the ring,
and she never missed the old man for an hour
without being convinced that he had hobbled
off to wrest the belt from the latest upstart
champion. It was at his own very earnest
request that they inscribed “He fought the
good fight” upon his tombstone, and though
I cannot doubt that he had Black Baruk and
Crab Wilson in his mind when he asked it,
yet none who knew him would grudge its spir-
itual meaning as a summing up of his clean and
manly life.
Sir Charles Tregellis continued for some years
401


THE END
again. His money, which had ruined what
might have been a great life, was divided
amongst many bequests, an annuity to his valet,
Ambrose, being amongst them; but enough has
come to his sister, my dear mother, to help to
make her old age as sunny and as pleasant as
even I could wish.
And as for me—the poor string upon which
these beads are strung—I dare scarce say another
word about myself, lest this, which I had meant
to be the last word of a chapter, should grow
into the first words of a new one. Had I not
taken up my pen to tell you a story of the land,
I might, perchance, have made a better one of
the sea ; but the one frame cannot hold two
opposite pictures. The day may come when I
shall write down all that I remember of the
greatest battle ever fought upon salt water, and
how my father's gallant life was brought to an
end as, with his paint rubbing against a French
eighty-gun ship on one side and a Spanish
seventy-four upon the other, he stood eating an
apple in the break of his poop. I saw the
smoke banks on that October evening swirl
slowly up over the Atlantic swell, and rise, and
rise, until they had shredded into thinnest air,
and lost themselves in the infinite blue of heaven.
403


RODNEY STONE
And with them rose the cloud which had hung
over the country; and it also thinned and
thinned, until God's own sun of peace and se-
curity was shining once more upon us, never
more, we hope, to be bedimmed.
THE END
404


NOTES
twelve stone. He may be said, with more truth than any
other boxer—with the exception perhaps of Randall—to
have brought genius to the business. His effects were origi-
nal, unstudied, and overwhelming. He had a sequence of
three blows, which settled many an encounter. Before he
was of age he had beaten every man of his weight on the
list.
Poor Jem was only in his twenty-third year when his eye
was cut out by a racquet ball. His friends rallied round him
and bought him a public house, but his spirit was too enter-
prising to permit him to remain quiet while others claimed
the title which had been his own. His fellow-townsman,
Hen Pearce, known as “The Game Chicken,” had fought
his way up, and Belcher was called upon to resign the belt
or to defend it. Against the advice of his best friends he
chose to fight. Having lost one eye, and his other being
damaged in the contest, he was at a terrible disadvantage,
but he fought on with heroic determination to the inevitable
end. Even after this lesson he would not give in, but fought
two desperate battles with Cribb before he was convinced
that the injury which he had sustained handicapped him
too severely to give him any hopes of ever again excelling in
the ring. He died at the age of thirty, heart-broken at his
own impotence.
THE PRINCE OF WALES.
The peculiarities of George, especially his delusions as to
his own exploits, as described in the text, might appear to
verge upon caricature, but we have excellent evidence of
their existence. Among other mythical adventures he was
fond of narrating how he had led the famous charge of the
heavies at Salamanca, and he actually, upon one occasion,
appealed to the Duke of Wellington for corroboration. He
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