"Let me tell the story, ’Dumpling.’ Yes, ’twas in 1830 at East Barnet, and ’the Deaf ’Un,’ as Burke was called, had Master Tim’s shutters up in thirty-three rounds. Then, afore I’d pulled up the stakes, if that saucy chap, Tommy Roundhead, the trainer, didn’t come on me with a lot of his bunkum. I was on the losing side that day and not in the best temper; but I let him go a bit and then gave him some straight talk; and ’Dumpling’ here will tell you that as a man of forty my tongue was as ready as my pen. Anyhow, I touched Roundhead on the raw and lashed him into such a proper passion that nothing would do but to settle it there and then in the old style. Tommy put down his five shillings and I covered it, though nobody knew ’twas the last two half-crowns I had in my fob at the time. But I was itching to have a slap at the beggar, and into the Ring I went and shouted for Roundhead. Raining, mind you, all the time--raining rivers, you might say. Well, up hops Roundhead, stripped to the buff and as thin as a dead frog; and when the people saw him in his skin and counted his ribs, they laughed fit to wake the churchyard. But thin though Tommy was, I knew right well that I was thinner. However, I cared nothing for that, and was just getting out of my togs, when some reporters and other chaps, having a respect for me as a poet and a man in a thousand, came between and wouldn’t hear of it. "’What about my five bob?’ I said. ’D---- your five bob, "Frosty,"’ they said. ’Here’s ten.’ And so, without ’by your leave,’ they thrust me back into my clothes and dragged the arm out of my ’upper Benjamin’ in doing it. ’Twas just the world’s respect for me as a maker of verses, you might say, that kept me out of the Ring that day. So I soon had the true blue stakes up and went off with ’em; and the ropes and staples and beetle, and all the rest of it." A warlike atmosphere seemed to waken in the peaceful bar of ’The Corner House.’ The youths imagined themselves engaged in terrific trials of strength; their elders pictured the joy of playing spectators’ parts. Mr. Fogo told story after story, and it seemed with few exceptions that the heroes of the ring, tricky though they might be in battle, were men of simple probity and honourable spirit. His great hero was ’Bendigo,’ William Thompson of Nottingham, a Champion of England. "And ’Bendy’s’ going strong yet," said Mr. Fogo. "After his last fight with Paddock, about ten year ago now--a bad fight too--’Bendy’ won on a foul; after that he got converted, as they say, and took to preaching. He’s at it yet and does pretty well, I believe." "’Bendy’ with a white choker! What a wonder!" declared Mr. Shillabeer.