It was my neighbour Warr who very good-humouredly pointed out to me all these celebrities, the echoes of whose fame had been wafted down even to our little Sussex village. “There’s Andrew Gamble, the Irish champion,” said he. “It was ’e that beat Noah James, the Guardsman, and was afterwards nearly killed by Jem Belcher, in the ’ollow of Wimbledon Common by Abbershaw’s gibbet. The two that are next ’im are Irish also, Jack O’Donnell and Bill Ryan. When you get a good Irishman you can’t better ’em, but they’re dreadful ’asty. That little cove with the leery face is Caleb Baldwin the Coster, ’im that they call the Pride of Westminster. ’E’s but five foot seven, and nine stone five, but ’e’s got the ’eart of a giant. ’E’s never been beat, and there ain’t a man within a stone of ’im that could beat ’im, except only Dutch Sam. There’s George Maddox, too, another o’ the same breed, and as good a man as ever pulled his coat off. The genelmanly man that eats with a fork, ’im what looks like a Corinthian, only that the bridge of ’is nose ain’t quite as it ought to be, that’s Dick ’Umphries, the same that was cock of the middle-weights until Mendoza cut his comb for ’im. You see the other with the grey ’ead and the scars on his face?” “Why, it’s old Tom Faulkner the cricketer!” cried Harrison, following the line of Bill Warr’s stubby forefinger. “He’s the fastest bowler in the Midlands, and at his best there weren’t many boxers in England that could stand up against him.” “You’re right there, Jack ’Arrison. ’E was one of the three who came up to fight when the best men of Birmingham challenged the best men of London. ’E’s an evergreen, is Tom. Why, he was turned five-and-fifty when he challenged and beat, after fifty minutes of it, Jack Thornhill, who was tough enough to take it out of many a youngster. It’s better to give odds in weight than in years.” “Youth will be served,” said a crooning voice from the other side of the table. “Ay, masters, youth will be served.”