"Come, Tom," coaxed the other, "everybody's heerd o' Buck Vibbot,
'im they calls the 'Fightin' Barronite.'"
"If," said Cragg, rolling his bullet-head, "if you was to ask me
who put Ted Jarraway to sleep, I should answer you, Sir Maurice
Vibart, commonly called 'Buck' Vibart; an' it took ten rounds to
do it, not five."
As may be expected, at this mention of my cousin's name I pricked
up my ears.
"And what's all this 'bout him 'putting out' Tom Cragg, in three?"
At this there was a sudden silence and all eyes were turned towards
the speaker, a small, red-headed fellow, with a truculent eye.
"Come," said he, blowing out a cloud of tobacco smoke, "in three
rounds! What d'ye say to that now, come?"
Cragg had started up in his chair and now sat scowling at his
inquisitor open-mouthed; and in the hush I could hear the ticking
of the clock in the corner, and the crackle of the logs upon the
hearth. Then, all at once, Cragg's pipe shivered to fragments on
the floor and he leapt to his feet. In one stride, as it seemed,
he reached the speaker, who occupied the corner opposite mine,
but, even as he raised his fist, he checked himself before the
pocket-pistol which the other held levelled across the table.
"Come, come--none o' that," said the red-headed man, his eye more
truculent than ever, "I ain't a fightin' cove myself, and I don't
want no trouble--all I asks is, what about Buck Vibart putting
out Tom Cragg--in three rounds? That's a civil question, ain't
it--what d'ye say now--come?"
"I says," cried Tom Cragg, flourishing a great fist in the air,
"I says as 'e done it--on a foul!" And he smote the table a blow
that set the glasses ringing.
"Done it on a foul?" cried three or four voices.
"On a foul!" repeated Cragg.
"Think again," said the red-headed man, "'t were said as it was a
werry clean knock-out."
"An' I say it were done on a foul," reiterated Cragg, with
another blow of his fist, "an' wot's more, if Buck Vibart stood
afore me--ah, in this 'ere very room, I'd prove my words."
"Humph!" said the red-headed man, "they do say as he's wonderful
quick wi' his 'mauleys,' an' can hit--like a sledgehammer."
"Quick wi' 'is 'ands 'e may be, an' able to give a goodish thump,
but as for beatin' me--it's 'all me eye an' Betty Martin,' an'
you can lay to that, my lads. I could put 'im to sleep any time
an' anywhere, an' I'd like--ah! I'd like to see the chap as says
contrairy!" And here the pugilist scowled round upon his hearers
(more especially the red-headed man) so blackly that one or two
of them shuffled uneasily, and the latter individual appeared to
become interested in the lock of his pistol.