at
Tom's shrine were of another sort as a rule; but he was evidently and
mightily impressed by the old gentleman's interest in his career. He
told a story which, in its main lines, I remember as well as if I had
heard it yesterday, though I rack my brains in vain for the names of
the two people concerned in it.

'I suppose, sir,' said Tom, 'as you never heard how I come to
fight'--let me call him Jones.

No, my father never had heard.

'Well, it was like this. Lord ---- comes to me a week or two before the
Derby, and "Tom," he says, "I've got a notion. You and me," he says,
"is goin' down to the Derby together," he says. "I've got a pair of
snow-white mokes," he says, "and I've bought a coster's shallow. I'm
having it painted white and picked out in gold," he says, "and it's
going to be upholstered in white satin. Now, you and me, Tom," says his
lordship--"you and me's going to get up in white shoes, white kickseys,
white westcuts, white hats, white coats, white ties, and white gloves,"
he says. "We'll go down a reg'lar pair of bloomin' lilies!" Well,
we did, and it was agreed to be the best turn-out of the day. We was
walkin' in the ring when up comes Jones, and, without with your leave or
by your leave, he hits me on the nose. Well, I was that soft and out of
condition the clarrit was all over me in no time. I was goin' for Jones
like a shot; but his lordship he stops me and he says, "Tom," he says,
"you shall fight him," he says, "for two hundred pound." I did, and you
may believe as I paid him out for that.'

We were greatly impressed with this narrative, and I have always thought
the regular pair of blooming lilies delicious. I told Tom that I
had known the poor old Slasher, and he spoke of him with respectful
sympathy.

'He was the right sort, the Tipton was, and I was sorry to take him
down. Perhaps somebody 'll come one of these days and lower my colours.
It's my turn to-day and somebody else's to-morrow.'

I vex the shades no more. Their form of valour is no longer known
amongst us; but there are some who regret. I find pathetics among them,
and quaint humours, in my memory.

The End

Printed By Spottiswoods And Co., New-Street Square London

End of Project Gutenberg's The Making Of A Novelist, by David Christie Murray

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