“I never heard of Ted Barton, beyond seeing the name on a medicine label,” said the assistant. “Well, you may take it from me that he’s a slaughterer,” said the horse-breaker. “You’ve taught him a lesson that he needed, for it was always a word and a blow with him, and the word alone was worth five shillin’ in a public court. He won’t be so ready now to shake his nief in the face of everyone he meets. However, that’s neither here nor there.” Montgomery looked at them in bewilderment. “For goodness’ sake, gentlemen, tell me what it is you want me to do!” he cried. “We want you to fight Silas Craggs, better known as the Master of Croxley.” “But why?” “Because Ted Barton was to have fought him next Saturday. He was the champion of the Wilson coal-pits, and the other was the Master of the iron-folk down at the Croxley smelters. We’d matched our man for a purse of a hundred against the Master. But you’ve queered our man, and he can’t face such a battle with a two-inch cut at the back of his head. There’s only one thing to be done, sir, and that is for you to take his place. If you can lick Ted Barton you may lick the Master of Croxley, but if you don’t we’re done, for there’s no one else who is in the same street with him in this district. It’s twenty rounds, two-ounce gloves, Queensberry rules, and a decision on points if you fight to the finish.” For a moment the absurdity of the thing drove every other thought out of Montgomery’s head. But then there came a sudden revulsion. A hundred pounds!--all he wanted to complete his education was lying there ready to his hand, if only that hand were strong enough to pick it up. He had thought bitterly that morning that there was no market for his strength, but here was one where his muscle might earn more in an hour than his brains in a year. But a chill of doubt came over him. “How can I fight for the coal-pits?” said he. “I am not connected with them.” “Eh, lad, but thou art!” cried old Purvis. “We’ve got it down in writin’, and it’s clear enough ‘Anyone connected with the coal-pits.’ Doctor Oldacre is the coal-pit club doctor; thou art his assistant. What more can they want?” “Yes, that’s right enough,” said the Cantab. “It would be a very sporting thing of you, Mr. Montgomery, if you would come to our help when we are in such a hole. Of course, you might not like to take the hundred pounds; but I have no doubt that, in the case of your winning, we could arrange that it should take the form of a watch or piece of plate, or any other shape which might suggest itself to you. You see, you are responsible for our having lost our champion, so we really feel that we have a claim upon you.” “Give me a moment, gentlemen. It is very unexpected. I am afraid the doctor would never consent to my going--in fact, I am sure that he would not.”