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!” whilst the landlord, attracted by the shouting, came running 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. “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 England, 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 myself, 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 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?”