“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.” “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 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.” “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.”