'The Fancy!' he said with disgust, spitting out the words. 'That's what they calls 'em. The bleedin' Fancy! There's nothing fancy about this load of ragamuffins. They stink to 'igh 'eaven. We're carryin' the dregs of London today and no mistake.'

'Be fair, Tod,' said Horlock. 'They're not all riff-raff, crammed into the third-class carriages. We've respectable passengers aboard as well in first and second class. Everyone likes the noble art.'

'What's noble about beatin' a man to a pulp?'

'There's skill involved.'

'Pah!'

'There is. There's tactics and guile and raw courage. It's not just a trial of brute strength.'

'I still don't 'old with it, Sam.'

'But it's manly.'

'It's against the bleedin' law, that's what it is.'

'More's the pity!'

'The magistrates ought to stop it.'

'By rights, they should,' agreed Horlock with a grin, 'but they got too much respect for the sport. My guess is that half the magistrates of Berkshire will be there in disguise to watch the contest.'

'Shame on them!'

'They don't want to miss the fun, Tod. Last time we had a fight like this was six or seven years ago when Caunt lost to Bendigo. Now that was milling of the highest order. They went toe to toe for over ninety gruelling rounds, the pair of them, drooping from exhaustion and dripping with blood.'

'Yes – and what did that do to the spectators?'

'It set them on fire, good and proper.'

'That's my worry,' admitted Galway, watching a trio of boisterous navvies strut past. 'These buggers are bad enough before the fight. Imagine what they'll be like afterwards when their blood is racing and their passions is stoked up. I fear for my train, Sam.'