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Updated: June 3, 2025
Todds' possession of the stamina, and the grand voice of Captain Abrane, and the Father Christmas, roast-beef-of-Old England face of the umpire declared to be on the side of Lord Brailstone's colour blue, darkened the star of Kit Ines till a characteristic piece of behaviour was espied. He dashed his cap into the ring and followed it, with the lightest of vaults across the ropes.
He was on the pavement, and it seems he measured her as she slipped by him, and one thing and another caused him to smell a cheat; and General Abrane, standing beside her near the door, cried: 'Where art flying now, Jack? But Jack Potts grew more positive and bellowed, 'Peel her wig! we're done!
They had a short colloquy with newspaper reporters; an absolutely fair, square, upright fight of Britons was to be chronicled. Captain Abrane, a tower in the crowd, registered bets whenever he could. Curricles, gigs, carts, pony-traps, boys on ponies, a swarm on legs, flowed to the central point and huddled there. Was either champion born in Kent?
Mason Fennell, a friend of Mr. Owain Wythan's. They shouted, in an unseemly way, Queeney thought, at their breakfast-table, to hear that three of the English party, namely, Captain Abrane, Mr. Mallard, and Mr. Potts, had rung for tea and toast in bed.
The bets against him had simultaneously a see-saw rise. 'Bellows, he appears to have none, was the comment of Chumley Potts. 'Now for training, Chummy! said Lord Fleetwood. 'Chummy! signifying a crow over Potts, rang out of the hollows of Captain Abrane on Lord Brailstone's coach. Carinthia put a hand behind her to Madge. It was grasped, in gratitude for sympathy or in feminine politeness.
Gower imagined the fun upon middle Thames: the vulcan face of Captain Abrane; the cries of his backers, the smiles of the ladies, Lord Fleetwood's happy style in the teeth of tattlean Aurora's chariot for overriding it. One might hope, might almost see, that he was coming to his better senses on a certain subject.
And first I am going to describe to you the young Earl of Fleetwood, son of the strange Welsh lady, the richest nobleman of his time, and how he persued and shunned the lady who had fascinated him, Henrietta, the daughter of Commodore Baldwin Fakenham; and how he met Carinthia Jane; and concerning that lovely Henrietta and Chillon Kirby-Levellier; and of the young poet of ordinary parentage, and the giant Captain Abrane, and Livia the widowed Countess of Fleetwood, Henrietta's cousin, daughter of Curtis Fakenham; and numbers of others; Lord Levellier, Lord Brailstone, Lord Simon Pitscrew, Chumley Potts, young Ambrose Mallard; and the English pugilist, such a man of honour though he drank; and the adventures of Madge, Carinthia Jane's maid.
'A fellow calculating the chances catches at a knife in the air. 'Every franc-piece he had! cried Abrane. 'And how could the jackass expect to keep his luck! Flings off his old suit and comes back here with a rig of German bags you never saw such a figure! Shoreditch Jew's holiday! why, of course, the luck wouldn't stand that.
'I must. I'm in a hurry. 'What 's the hurry? 'I want to smoke and think. 'Takes a carriage on the top of the morning to smoke and think! Hark at that! Abrane sang out. 'Oh, come along quietly, you fellow, there's a good fellow! It concerns us all, every man Jack; we're all bound up in your fortunes. Fellow with luck like yours can't pretend to behave independently. Out of reason!
How did she accomplish this miracle of commanding respect after such a string of somersaults before the London world? He had to drive North-westward: his word was pledged to one of his donkey Ixionides Abrane, he recollected to be a witness at some contemptible exhibition of the fellow's muscular skill: a match to punt against a Thames waterman: this time.
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