“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 gentleman 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 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 uncle welcomed him, and led some of the Corinthians 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 general regulator of the whole prize-fighting body, by whom he was usually alluded to as the Commander-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 Sole going in. Two and two, lads, and don’t forget whose company you are in.”