At the beginning of the forty-seventh round Langan was brought up to the scratch by his seconds, which, though strictly speaking, against the rules then in force, was frequently winked at. It was a good rule, and should have been adhered to: because if a man could not come up to the scratch at the call of time he was certainly in no condition to continue fighting. After a time Langan’s conduct went beyond the boundaries of pluck and became--what we should certainly call to-day--foolish obstinacy. “There was nothing to be gained by going on.” And how often do we hear that remark to-day in all manner of diverse connections. But we should recognise a signal virtue in that (no doubt foolish) desire to go on where “nothing is to be gained.” “Leave me alone, I _will_ fight,” Langan said, when his plight was so obviously hopeless that the crowd on all sides yelled for him to be taken away. And he went on until the seventy-seventh round. And for many rounds before the end Spring never hit at all, but gently pushed the brave fellow down. In the end he came tottering to the scratch and fell senseless without even the push. This fight lasted for one hour and forty-eight minutes. Both Spring and Langan retired after this and became fast friends. “Thormanby” tell us that every year on the anniversary of their first fight Langan used to send Tom Spring a keg of the very best Irish potheen. Spring told “Thormanby” this story in 1851, just before he died. After his retirement the champion took the Castle Tavern in Holborn, Tom Belcher’s lease of which had just expired, and he became widely known as a great landlord and sportsman. “Thormanby” has another story to tell of Jack Langan’s generosity. He settled at Liverpool when he retired and took an inn there; and when the Irish harvesters came over each year, Langan would put up as many of them as he could for a couple of days on their way inland. These men he fed and provided with plenty of beer and a nightcap of potheen--on the condition that before going to roost they left their sickles and shillelaghs in his care. Towards the end of his life Tom Spring got into financial difficulties, owing to his trust in friends who used him as an agent in betting transactions, and then disappeared when the wrong horse got home or the wrong man gave in. He died at the early age of fifty-six, in 1851; Langan having predeceased him by five years. CHAPTER XIV DEAF BURKE AND SIMON BYRNE