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I 'eard the thump of it, and I kind o' velt somethin' vistle past me, but ven I looked there vas the Eytalian a feelin' of 'is muscles in the middle o' the stage, and as to Bob, there vern't no sign' of 'im at all no more'n if 'e'd never been." His audience was riveted by the old prize-fighter's story. "Well," cried a dozen voices, "what then, Buckhorse: 'ad 'e swallowed 'im, or what?"
"It von't be long that you'll be able to see my crooks vich 'ave been on Figg's conk, and on Jack Broughton's, and on 'Arry Gray's, and many another good fightin' man that was millin' for a livin' before your fathers could eat pap." The company laughed again, and encouraged the old man by half- derisive and half-affectionate cries. "Let 'em 'ave it, Buckhorse! Give it 'em straight!
But 'e's been on the shelf now for near sixty years, and it cost 'im many a beatin' before 'e could understand that 'is strength was slippin' away from 'im." "Youth will be served, masters," droned the old man, shaking his head miserably. "Fill up 'is glass," said Warr. "'Ere, Tom, give old Buckhorse a sup o' liptrap. Warm his 'eart for 'im."
Prize-fighters, Corinthians, Prince, stable-boy, and landlord were all shouting at the top of their lungs. Old Buckhorse was skipping about on a box beside me, shrieking out criticisms and advice in strange, obsolete ring-jargon, which no one could understand. His dull eyes were shining, his parchment face was quivering with excitement, and his strange musical call rang out above all the hubbub.
"That's old Buckhorse," whispered Champion Harrison. "He was just the same as that when I joined the ring twenty years ago. Time was when he was the terror of London." "'E was so," said Bill Warr. "'E would fight like a stag, and 'e was that 'ard that 'e would let any swell knock 'im down for 'alf-a- crown. 'E 'ad no face to spoil, d'ye see, for 'e was always the ugliest man in England.
Again he emitted the curious bell-like cry, and again the Corinthians and the fighting-men laughed and applauded him. "His Royal Highness that is, the Earl of Chester would be glad to hear the end of your story, Buckhorse," said my uncle, to whom the Prince had been whispering. "Vell, your R'yal 'Ighness, it vas like this.
A hoarse roar of laughter from all the company answered it, and flushed faces craned over each other to catch a glimpse of the veteran. "There's Buckhorse!" they cried. "Buckhorse is comin' round again." "You can laugh if you vill, masters," he cried, in his Lewkner Lane dialect, holding up his two thin, vein-covered hands.
There's not more'n a few of you could 'it a dint in a pat o' butter, and if you gets a smack or two it's all over vith you. Vich among you could get up again after such a vipe as the Eytalian Gondoleery cove gave to Bob Vittaker?" "What was that, Buckhorse?" cried several voices. "'E came over 'ere from voreign parts, and 'e was so broad 'e 'ad to come edgewise through the doors.
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