The little group of men by the inn seemed to melt away as the seamen and marines drew near.

Two figures remained, and a more incongruous pair it was hard to imagine.

One was small and darting, with a sharp voice which carried easily above the fife and drum. The other was big and powerful, stripped to the waist, his arms and fists hanging at his sides like weapons waiting to be used.

The small man, a barker, enraged earlier by the sudden departure of his audience, saw the sailors and beckoned excitedly.

“Well, well, well, wot ’ave we ’ere then? Sons of the sea, the British Jack Tar!” He doffed his hat to Bolitho. “An’ a real gentleman in command, no doubt of that!”

Bolitho said wearily, “Fall the men out, Little. I’ll have the landlord send some ale and cheese.”

The barker was shouting, “Which one of you brave lads will stand up to this fighter of mine?” His eyes darted amongst them. “A guinea for the man who can stand two minutes against ’im!” The coin flashed between his fingers. “You don’t ’ave to win, my brave boys, just stand and fight for two minutes! ”

He had their full attention now, and Bolitho heard the corporal murmur to Little, “Wot about it, Josh? A ’ole bleedin’ guinea!”

Bolitho paused by the inn door and glanced at the prize-fighter for the first time. He looked as strong as ten, and yet there was something despairing and pathetic about him. He was not looking at any of the seamen but apparently staring into space. His nose had been broken, and his face showed the punishment of many fights. Country fairs, for the farming gentry, for anyone who would wager on seeing men fight for a bloody victory. Bolitho was not certain which one he despised more, the man who lived off the fighter or the one who laid bets on his pain.

He said shortly, “I shall be inside, Little.” All at once the thought of a glass of ale or cider beckoned him like a wilful spirit.

Little was already thinking of other things. “Aye, sir.”