‘Not likely,’ said Nick with evident pleasure. ‘’E’s too clever for ’em, is Captain Sparkler. ’E loves to drive ‘em wild by flauntin’ these pictures in front of ’em as ’e dances out of their reach. The word is ’e’s stowed away on a ship for France.’
‘So how is the pertinacious captain able to draw a cartoon referring to a political scandal that broke last week?’ asked Lord Francis, sounding exactly like the nobleman he was rather than the chimney sweep he was pretending to be.
‘Lawd, Frankie boy, you swallered a dictionary or somethink?’ marvelled Nick. Lord Francis now flushed and began to stammer an excuse. ‘No, don’t you apologise. Nuffink wrong with a bit of learnin’. You be proud of it, mate! Look at our Cat here: ’oo’d think she ’ad all that stuff packed away in ’er pretty little ’ead? Syd’s always ’olding ’er up as a model to the rest of us ’alfwits!’ Nick began to laugh at the very idea of him and the gang learning to read and write like gentlemen.
I did not quell Nick’s overloud comments as I was still thinking about Lord Francis’s question. Yes, how was a man, rumoured to be in France, able to be so up-to-the-minute with his cartoons? The obvious answer was that he had never left. He must be in hiding and I had a shrewd suspicion where.
So pleased was I by my own powers of deduction that I was eager to share my guess with Pedro to impress him with my cleverness. Unfortunately, there were too many people around at the moment: it would have to wait.
‘Gentlemen!’ The referee stood forward and held up his hand for silence. ‘I present our fighters to you: the reigning champion . . . the Camden Crusher!’
The Camden Crusher lumbered to his feet and raised his glistening arms to acknowledge the cheers and whistles of his supporters.
‘And our challenger: the Bow Street Butcher!’
Rather more nimbly, Syd stripped off his shirt, bounced to his feet and bowed to acknowledge the applause. His hair looked very pale against his flushed cheeks.
‘Go for him, Crusher!’ yelled a man on the far side.
‘Let’s hear it for the brave butcher!’ shouted another.
The crowd cheered Syd again, but rather, I felt, as a crowd for a public execution would comfort a popular criminal with their voices. Everyone was expecting him to be well and truly crushed by the boy from Camden.
‘You can do it, Syd!’ I cried.
Hearing my high voice over the others, Syd turned in my direction to give me a special smile and a nod.
‘Now, you know the rules, gents,’ said the referee in a voice that commanded silence. ‘Nothing below the belt. If you’re down, you have half a minute to return to set-to at the scratch. If you fail to come up to scratch, then your opponent wins. Are you ready, gents?’
Syd grunted his agreement and raised his fists to chest height. The Crusher nodded, giving Syd a mocking smile.
‘You’re dead,’ he mouthed.
‘Then . . .’ said the referee, moving back, ‘set to!’
The fight began. The Crusher piled forward and grabbed Syd in a wrestling hold, pushing him back against the rails. Syd took small, quick jabs at his opponent’s stomach . . . one, two, three, four, five . . . until he collided painfully with the wooden bar. There they stayed, the Crusher grinding down Syd’s resistance with a flurry of punches that left great red welts on his skin. Once it was clear that the pair were caught on the rails, the referee rushed forward with the seconds to part the fighters. The seconds led their boys back to the scratch, both hissing encouragement and advice. The boxers set to again, this time exchanging body blows. Head down, arms pumping like pistons, Syd grazed his knuckles as his fist caught the side of the Crusher’s ribs. Blood dripped from the Crusher’s nose as a second jab caught him in the face. When the fighters circled round, I could see that Syd too was bleeding, in his case from a cut to his temple. Blows rained down fast and furious, bone smacking into flesh, red sweat dripping down their backs. I could hardly bear to watch and was reduced to covering my eyes with my hands. The more bloody and vicious the fight became, the more the crowd cheered. Peeking through my fingers, I could see money changing hands as the gentlemen at the ringside placed new bets. Syd was holding his own. I guessed the odds on him were shortening.
Then disaster struck: the Crusher landed a powerful blow to Syd’s jaw, knocking him backwards to the floor. Syd rolled over with a groan, his eyes now at a level with our heads only a few feet away.
‘One! Two! Three . . .!’ chanted the crowd.
Syd’s dad rushed over to help him to his feet but he was not moving.
‘Come on, son!’ he bellowed. ‘Get up!’
‘Fifteen! Sixteen! Seventeen . . .!’
‘Come on, Syd!’ I screamed above the jeers and hoots. ‘Keep going!’
Perhaps Syd heard me for his eyes locked on mine and, through the trickles of blood running down his face, I thought I could see him smile. Slowly, he heaved himself to his knees, then to his feet. Swaying like a drunken man, he let his father lead him to the chalk square.
‘Twenty-eight! Twenty-nine . . .!’
He had come up to scratch just in time.
‘Set-to!’ shouted the referee.
Some in the crowd groaned . . . an easy victory snatched from the Crusher’s grasp. Those of us backing the outsider cheered lustily.
Battle recommenced, now slower as the toll of all those blows began to tell on the combatants. Syd was moving heavily as if he had weights tied to his legs, but the Crusher seemed barely to be moving at all as he stood defending himself in the middle of the scratch. I began to think that maybe, just maybe, Syd could win this one. I stopped peeking through my fingers and joined in with the chant of ‘Butcher! Butcher!’ that Pedro and Nick had started. Next to me Lord Francis was hopping up and down, yelling his encouragement.