growls and snaps that his endearments were
as repulsive as his hostility. The temporary
lull given by this change of occupation
enabled King Harold to put a question, and us
to learn that we were doomed to disappointment.
We had been buoyed up with the hope
of seeing the great Spice face to face, and of
forming our own judgment as to his "fitness,"
and the effect of the training he had undergone
since we saw him present his portrait to the
editor of the Sleepless Life a few weeks ago.
This it was that lent interest to our visit in the                                                             eyes of Larry Shuntem, and which had made
him exact a pledge of looking in on our return
to give him "the latest noos."

But our visit had been too long deferred, and
the eminent Spice had retired for the night. A
man occupying his proud position is no more a
free agent than the monarch trammelled with the
ceremonies of courts. His trainer, his seconds,
his backers, his host, are all bent upon                                                                 preserving his condition; and early hours,
regularity, and abstinence, are insisted on with
fanatical zeal. Spice had been sent to bed that
he might be fresh in the morning, and we were
compelled to content ourselves with Grandison's
assurances concerning his "beautiful
fitness" for the fray. Let us look at Grandison
again. Pale, puffy, and fat, he lays down the
law with consummate self-complacency, and
wears his shirt-sleeves as if they were regal
robes. The stout good-tempered looking man
opposite him, who is slightly pock-marked and
wears a fair moustache, is the representative of
the cheap sporting journal whose excellences
have been already recorded.* Little Freddy
Pills has his own group of admirers, including
a batch of slim genteel young fellows, who have
dabbled in pedestrianism as amateurs, and are
now anxiously sitting at the feet of their
pocket Gamaliel for instruction and advice.
King Harold's pre-eminence is readily recognised,
for, long years before he came into his
kingdom, he won the hearts of the sporting
world by his successes in the field. Diversifying
the professional study of medicine with the
practice of athletic sports, he speedily rose to
be the champion runner of his day, and, as such, is
pointed out and referred to in the little parlour
at Grandison's. "Eight under five," "ten under
five," "fourteen under five," and other mystic
combinations, are used in speaking of different
fistic celebrities; and one of the highest
compliments I hear paid to Spice is, that he could do
"more under five than Cuss, and carry weight
into the bargain." (We learnt afterwards that
these figures related to the number of seconds
under five minutes, in which a mile could be
run by the men named.) Freddy Pills is
very full of confidence on this point, ticking off
pugilist with "ten" or "eight under
five" the instant he is named. The stout red-
faced man in a suit of Forty-second plaid is a
Billingsgate fishmonger; the swarthy fellow
near him with the huge diamond ring on
each dirty hand, the heavy watch-chain and
the large ruby pendant., half locket, breast-
pin, on his stock, is his chief rival's salesman;
the big heavy-visages personage,  whose red                                                    whiskers meet like an inverted nimbus round
his chin, and who insists upon Grandison's
drinking with him, is a wholesale potato-
merchant; the rank and file, who hang about
and join in conversation when allowed, include
ring-keepers, ex-pugilists, and tavern-keepers
from afar. All this time, the door leading from
the bar to this sanctum is kept bolted on the
inside, lest some not entitled to the privilege
should come in. But the confidence expressed
in Spice's superior powers is of a remarkably
modest chracater, and not a single bet is made
during our stay.
* See THE ROUGHS' GUIDE, vol. xiv., page 492.

The  fight, between Walloper and Lickem,
which is to take place in the champion's ring,
when the greater event is decided, though
for only fifty pounds aside, occasions far more
spirited discussion than the fight between Spice
and Cuss. Grandison wishes "we'd bin a bit
hearlier, that we might a seen 'ow fine and fit
Zeb looks;" but there seems a want of heartiness
in the aspiration, which the next day's
results make intelligible enough. Another thing
struck us as odd: Puddlepool is comparatively
unrepresented. That great Lancashire capital,
honoured by the residence of Mr. Spice, and
proud as it professes to be of his scientific
prowess and athletic skill, should have had its
delegates among the army. Could it have been
that the hero, knowing what was to come, and the
ignominious position he would occupy, had made
friends with the mammon of unrighteousness,
to the extent of telling the local supporters
that the contest would be bloodless and
uninteresting, and that neither bets nor stakes
would be won?

A sharp knock at the bolted door is answered
at Mr. Grandison's request, and a villanous
head peeps in, one eye of which is almost closed,
from the effects of a recent blow. Its owner
does not speak, but makes silent gesticulations
interrogatively to Bill Grandison, who holds up
two fingers of his left hand in reply, and says,
"No more, mind, not another pin." Freddy
Pills and a Jewish ex-prize-fighter, who has come
to town to assist in keeping the ring to-morrow,
laugh together at this, as if enjoying hugely
some secret joke. Can it be that a victim with
more money than brains is being playfully
swindled by skittle-sharpers under the same
roof, and that the proceeding is so well understood,
that Grandison is asked how far he will
leave the pigeon in the plucker's hands, and
how many feathers he will consider it
sportsmanlike to leave for his own pulling? The
significant smiles and shrugs of those who are
out of our host's sight, make this hypothesis
seem probable, and, after looking at Freddy
Pills's leg, who obligingly bares it for our inspection
with something of poor Shuntem's
readiness, we now leave for the hostelry kept by
Ross Filer.

Like Ajax "with Atalantean shoulders fit