And what's more--Tom Croxton, The 'Thunderbolt'--the
man who forced Jessamy to fight--was a plant--"
"Now pray, Uncle George, how may a great, hulking ruffian even faintly
resemble any such thing?"
At this my uncle gasped, stared, shook his head, jingled his spurs and
finally spoke:
"In Heaven's name, don't pretend you're so infernal green, Perry! The
'Thunderbolt' is a fighting man from Lambeth, a tough customer who's
won a fight or so lately and thought he could beat anything on two
pins. So we were bringing him down here, hoping to match him with
Jessamy, or, failing him, some other good man. But the fool, not
knowing Jessamy, get's himself thrashed, and the whole thing's a
flam."
"Jessamy has given up the game, Uncle."
"I know, but he loves it still. And you saw the fight! Tell me of
it--no, wait--the others must hear." So saying, my uncle George hooked
his powerful arm in mine and led me whither he would. By devious ways
we went, to avoid the crowd; dodging behind empty caravans and
waggons, skirting booths and tents until we came on one greater than
all the rest, a huge canvas structure into which he brought me
forthwith. The place was empty except for some scant few persons
grouped about a stage whereon two fellows, naked to the waist, their
fists swathed in what I believe are termed 'muffles', dodged and
ducked, feinted or smote each other with great spirit and gusto until
one of them, reeling from a flush hit, sat down with sudden violence
and remained in this posture to blink and get his breath.
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