‘Place your bets, gents!’ called out one bookmaker waving his notebook in the air as he weaved through the crowds. ‘Two to one for the Camden Crusher to beat the Butcher with a knockout!’
‘That doesn’t sound too good for your friend, does it?’ said Lord Francis looking longingly after the bookmaker. ‘Shall I place a bet on him winning?’ He chinked some coins in his pocket.
‘No!’ I said quickly, pulling him back. ‘Just how do you think a chimney sweep could afford to bet gold? You’ll be found out in one second flat.’
‘I suppose you are right,’ said Lord Francis gloomily, withdrawing his hand from his pocket. ‘And Father’s always forbidden me from betting.’
‘He’s a sensible man,’ said Pedro, gazing after the toffee-apple seller, a large woman with a tray of glistening wares who was following the crowd through the gates on to the field. Lord Francis saw where he was looking.
‘I did take the precaution of putting a few pennies in amongst my guineas,’ he whispered, pressing some into Pedro’s hand. ‘Why don’t you buy us all one?’
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ said Pedro as he hastened off to catch her up.
‘Not “sir” . . . Frank!’ I hissed as a man at my elbow turned to look at us curiously.
‘Thanks, Frank,’ Pedro corrected himself and scrambled through the press to the toffee-apple seller. He returned bearing four sticks aloft in triumph.
‘Four!’ said Lord Francis. ‘Why four?’
‘One for luck,’ mumbled Pedro through a mouthful of toffee. He swallowed. ‘She’d seen me at the theatre, she said, so gave me one for nothing.’
It was then that I realised I had wasted my time worrying about Lord Francis drawing attention to us. Having Pedro was sufficient to make most people turn in our direction. I pulled my hat lower on my brows and said dryly, ‘Come on. Let’s find ourselves a spot before we get mobbed by Pedro’s admirers.’
The crowd was dividing in two around the raised platform. The arena was surrounded by rails and had a three-foot square . . . the scratch . . . marked out in chalk at the centre. A number of gentlemen sat on benches at the ringside; the rest of us found the best spot we could at ground level. Diving under arms and through narrow gaps, we managed to push our way through to the front.
Syd was sitting in his corner with his second . . . his father . . . listening intently to his advice. He had not yet stripped to the waist but was flexing his bare hands thoughtfully. On the other side of the chalk square sat the Camden Crusher . . . a lad of sixteen, built like an ox with a small head and powerful shoulders. He had already stripped and his second, a dandified gentleman in a bottle-green jacket with a sharp face like fox, was oiling his back for him . . . and, believe me, there was a lot of him to oil.
Nick, the lookout we had met outside Syd’s shop, sidled up to us.
‘’Ello Prince, Cat. ’Oo’s the soot?’
‘Frank,’ said Pedro, handing Nick the spare toffee apple. ‘He’s new.’
Nick gave Lord Francis a curious look. ‘’E’s a bit big for the chimneys, ain’t ’e? I thought they only liked nippers of eight ’n’ under.’
‘My master specialises in big chimneys, big houses,’ said Lord Francis quickly. ‘My younger brother does the small ones.’
‘Oh,’ said Nick, losing interest. ‘Right you are.’ He nudged me and nodded over at the Crusher. ‘Looks bad, don’t it, Cat? But Syd’ll be glad you came. You’re ’is lucky mascot. Oi, Syd! Cat’s ’ere!’ he shouted.
Syd turned round to look down on us. He gave me a wink. ‘All right, Cat?’ he called over. Seeing him standing up there made me think of him as the victim on the scaffold but, as I would not for any money let him see my concern, I gave him my broadest smile.
‘Yes,’ I called up. ‘Good luck!’
He gave me a nod and then returned to his preparations.
When I turned to speak to Pedro, I found him and Lord Francis sniggering over a piece of paper Nick was showing them.
‘What’s that?’ I asked, making a grab for the pamphlet. I could see it was a cartoon.
‘Nuffink,’ said Nick, hiding it behind his back.
‘Don’t give me that!’ I said, trying to wrestle it from him. ‘Let me see!’
‘Er, Cat,’ said Lord Francis in an undertone, ‘I don’t think it’s suitable for a lady’s eyes.’
‘Stuff that!’ I said, determined not to be left out. ‘Give it here!’
By tickling Nick in the ribs, I succeeded in making him surrender the paper. Perhaps I should not have done so, for as soon as I looked at it, I felt my cheeks go scarlet. It was a very crude representation of a member of the government squatting on a chamberpot marked ‘The Oppressed Masses’.
‘The word is,’ said Nick, covering for my embarrassment, ‘old Captain Sparkler’s gone too far this time. The beak’s after him.’
‘Beak?’ asked Lord Francis.
‘Gawd, Frank, wot country ’ave you been livin’ in? Beak: ma-gi-strate. Got it?’
‘Oh,’ said Lord Francis quickly. ‘Of course.’
‘’E’s to be made han heg-sample of, they say. Government’s got the wind up. ’E’s to be done for treason . . . ’anged or transported most like.’
‘No!’ I exclaimed. ‘All because he poked some fun at a few people! That’s not fair!’
‘Wot’s fair got to do with it? It’s powerful people ’e’s takin’ on, Cat. They don’t like to be made to look like fools. They ’ate ’im for makin’ fun of ’em. ’E can draw as many bare bums as ’e likes, but you watch, they’ll get ’im for attackin’ the king. ’Is last cartoon was plain treason, it was. Banned, I ’ear, so sales ’ave gone sky ’igh as you’d expect.’
‘So, have they caught him yet?’ asked Pedro.