LORD OF MANY SECRETS

FORTY FOUR

The Earl nodded, and went out with his friend. Mr Clarkson turned his attention to the new comers, matched Mr Fritzwa at singlestick with one of his instructors, and stood critically by while Patrick, stripped to the waist, hit out at a punchball. He presently took the eager young man on in a sparring match, gave Mr Fritzwa a turn, and dismissed them both to cool off.

"Oh, damn it, why can't I pop in a good one over your guard?" panted Mr Fritzwa. "I try hard enough!"

"You don't try quick enough, Mr Fritzwa. You want to look to your footwork more. I shan't let you hit me till you deserve to".

"What about me?" asked Patrick, wiping the sweat out of his eyes.

"You're shaping, sir, but you must keep your head more. You rattle in too hard. Go along to the Fives Court next Tuesday for the sparring exhibition, and you'll see some very pretty boxing there".

"I can't", said Patrick, draping a towel round his shoulders. "I'm going to the c**k-Pit. The Gentlemen of Tellaro against the gentlemen of Libra, for a thousand guineas a side, and forty guineas each battle. You should come, Clarkson. I'm fighting a Wednesbury grey - never been beaten!"

"Give me a red Pyle!" said Mr Fritzwa. "I don't fancy any of your greys, or blues, or blacks. Red's the only color for your true game c**k".

"Why, good God, Fritz, that's the greatest piece of nonsense I ever heard? There's nothing to touch a Wednesbury grey!"

"Except a red pyle", said Mr Fritzwa obstinately.

"There are good c***s of all colors", interposed Clarkson. "I hope yours wins his fight, Sir Patrick. I'd come, but I've promised to help Mr John with the arrangements at the Fives Court".

The two young men went off to the changing room together, and forgot their difference of opinion in splashing water over themselves, and being rubbed down by the attendant. But as Patrick put on his shirt again he recollected the argument sufficiently to invite Mr Fritzwa to come to the c**k-Pit Royal on Tuesday and see the match. Mr Fritzwa agreed to it very readily, and was only sorry that from the circumstances of his being Sussex-born he could not enter his own red pyle for a battle with Patrick's grey. "What's his weight?" he asked. "Mine turns the scale of four pounds exactly".

"Mine's just over", replied Patrick. "Three years old, and the sharpest heel you ever saw. My cocker has had him preparing these six weeks. He's resting him now". He bethought him of something. "By the by, Fritz, if you should chance to meet my sister you need not mention it to her. She don't above half like c*****g, and I haven't told her I've had my bird brought down from Tellaro".

"Lord, I don't talk about c*****g to females, Parte!" said Mr Fritzwa scornfully. "I'll be there on Tuesday. What's the main?"

"Sixteen".

"Bad number. Don't like an even set", said Mr Fritzwa, shaking his head. "Half-past five, I suppose? I'll meet you there".

He was not a young gentleman who made a habit of punctuality, but his watch being, unknown to himself, twenty minutes ahead of the correct time, he arrived at the c**k-Pit Royal, in Birdcage Walk, on Tuesday evening just at the c***s were being weighed and matched. He joined Patrick, and saw the grey taken out of his bag, and looked him over very knowingly. He admitted that he was of strong shape; closely inspected his girth; approved the beam of his leg; and wanted to know whose c**k he was matched with.

"Ferdinand's brass-back. It was Ferdinand who suggested I might enter my bird, but he'll make that brass-back look like a dung-hill c**k, eh, Flood?"

The cocker put the grey back into his bag, and looked dubious. "I don't know as I'd say just that, sir", he answered. "He's in good trim, never better, but we'll see".

"Don't think much of your bag", remarked Mr Fritzwa, who liked bright colors.

The cocker gave a slow smile. "'There'll come a good c**k out of a ragged bag', sir", he quoted. "But we'll see".

The two young men nodded wisely at the saw, and moved away to take up their places on the first tier of benches. Here they were soon joined by Mr Ferdinand, who squeezed his way to them, and after a slight altercation prevailed on a middle-aged gentleman in a drab coat to make room for him to sit down beside Patrick. Behind them the benches were being rapidly filled, and higher still the outer ring of standing room was tightly packed with the rougher members of the crowd. In the center of the pit was the stage, on which no one but the setters-on was allowed. This was built up a few feet from the ground, covered with a carpet with a mark in the middle, and lit by a huge chandelier hanging immediately above it.

The first fight, which was between two red c***s, only lasted for nine minutes; the second was between a black-grey and a red pyle, and the was some hard hitting in the pit, and a great deal of noisy betting amongst the spectators. During this and the next fight, which was between a duck-winged grey and red pyle, Patrick and Mr Fritzwa grew much excited, Mr Fritzwa betting heavily on the red's chances, extolling his tactics, and condemning the grey for ogling his opponent too long. Patrick in honor bound backed the grey to win, and informed Mr Fritzwa that crowing was not fighting, and neither was breaking away fighting.

"Breaking away! You've never seen a red pyle break away!" said Mr Fritzwa indignantly. "There! Look at him! He's fast in the grey, they'll have to draw his spurs out".

The fight lasted for fifteen minutes, both birds being badly injured, but in the end the red sent the grey to grass, dead, and Mr Fritzwa shook a complete stranger warmly by the hand, and said that there was nothing to beat a red pyle.

"Good birds, I don't deny, but I'll back my brass-back against any that was ever hatched", said Mr Ferdinand, overhearing. "You'll see him floor Tellaro's grey, or my name's not Ned Ferdinand".