'There's no need.'

'Think of the damage they could cause to railway property.'

'Not while we're around.'

'We're carryin' over a thousand passengers. What can an 'andful of policemen do against that lot?'

'Ever seen a sheepdog at work?' asked Horlock, hands on hips. 'If it knows its job, one dog can keep a flock of fifty under control. That's what we are, Tod. Sheepdogs of the Great Western Railway.'

'There's only one problem.'

'What's that?'

'You're dealing with wild animals – not with bleedin' sheep.'

When the excursion train pulled out of Paddington in a riot of hissing steam and clanking wheels, it was packed to capacity with eager boxing fans. There were two first-class carriages and three second-class but the vast majority of passengers were squeezed tightly into the open-topped third-class carriages, seated on hard wooden benches yet as happy as if they were travelling in complete luxury. As soon as the train hit open country, rolling landscape began to appear on both sides but it attracted little attention. All that the hordes could see in their mind's eye was the stirring spectacle that lay ahead of them. Isaac Rosen was to take on Bill Hignett in a championship contest.

In prospect, the fight had everything. It was a match between two undefeated boxers at the height of their powers. Rosen worked in a Bradford slaughterhouse where his ferocity had earned him his nickname. Hignett was a giant Negro who toiled on a Thames barge. It was a case of Mad Isaac versus the Bargeman. North versus South. White versus Black. And – to add some real piquancy – Jew versus Christian. Nobody could remain impartial. The London mob was going to cheer on Bill Hignett and they were baying for blood. As flagons of beer were passed around thirsty mouths, tongues were loosened and predictions became ever more vivid.