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Updated: June 5, 2025
"I know it must be either the Gasman or Bill Neat. There's no one else. So give me the office, and I'll promise to have him as fit as a trout on the day." The lady laughed contemptuously. "Do you think," said she, "that no one can fight save those who make a living by it?" "By George, it's an amateur!" cried Cribb, in amazement.
Charles Freeman, a very superior giant of American birth, seven feet four, I think, in height, "double-jointed," of mylodon muscularity, the same who in a British prize-ring tossed the Tipton Slasher from one side of the rope to the other, and now lies stretched, poor fellow! in a mighty grave in the same soil which holds the sacred ashes of Cribb, and the honored dust of Burke, not the one "commonly called the sublime," but that other Burke to whom Nature had denied the sense of hearing lest he should be spoiled by listening to the praises of the admiring circles which looked on his dear-bought triumphs.
I'll allow that I shouldn't have smoked when I was in trainin'. But I was saying to Tom Cribb here, just before you came in, that if you would give over treatin' us as if we were children, and if you would tell us just who it is you want me to fight, and when, and where, it would be a deal easier for me to take myself in hand." "It's true, ma'am," said the Champion.
"I think that I will take the front way," I answered. "It may be a bit longer, but it will give me the more time to think of Marie." Tom Cribb, Champion of England, having finished his active career by his two famous battles with the terrible Molineux, had settled down into the public house which was known as the Union Arms, at the corner of Panton Street in the Haymarket.
So they drifted away; he, frivolous and dilettante, she with her face as set as Fate, leaving the fighting men to their business. And now the day came when Cribb was able to announce to his employer that his man was as fit as science could make him. "I can do no more, ma'am. He's fit to fight for a kingdom. Another week would see him stale."
This was at Peter Cribb, who was grinning hugely, but who turned away, followed by Dan'l. "Them as is born to be hanged'll never be drowned," grumbled the old gardener sourly, as the two men went away. "No fear of him being drowned," said Peter. "Swims like a cork." "It's disgusting; that's what I say it is," growled Dan'l; "disgusting." "What's disgusting?" said Peter.
But in an impromptu turn-up like this one, the combatants show a tendency to ignore the rules so carefully mapped out by the present Marquess of Queensberry's grandfather, and revert to the conditions of warfare under which Cribb and Spring won their battles.
On 17th July 1820 Edward Painter of Norwich was to meet Thomas Oliver of London for a purse of a hundred guineas. Thomas Cribb, the champion of England, had come to see the fight, "Teucer Belcher, savage Shelton, . . . the terrible Randall, . . . Bulldog Hudson, . . . fearless Scroggins, . . . Black Richmond, . . . Tom of Bedford," and a host of lesser lights of the "Fancy."
"Did he?" "Did he? Yes, he just did; and you mark my words, Peter Cribb, it will not be long before the gov'ner gets rid of him." "Oh yes; it's a very beautiful fish," said the doctor testily; "but make haste in. There, run and get all your wet things off as quickly as you can."
As for myself, I had the good fortune to be pitted against a very pursy and unwieldy Frenchman, who sacre'd to admiration, but never put in a single blow at me; while, therefore, I amused myself practising what old Cribb called "the one, two," upon his fat carcase, I had abundant time and opportunity to watch all that was doing about me, and truly a more ludicrous affair I never beheld.
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