rother pugilists,
especially such as were in poverty or distress, for the Champion's
generosity was proverbial, and no man of his own trade was ever turned
from his door if cheering words or a full meal could mend his condition.

On the morning in question--August 25, 1818--there were but two men in
this famous snuggery. One was Cribb himself--all run to flesh since the
time seven years before, when, training for his last fight, he had done
his forty miles a day with Captain Barclay over the Highland roads.
Broad and deep, as well as tall, he was a little short of twenty stone
in weight, but his heavy, strong face and lion eyes showed that the
spirit of the prize-fighter was not yet altogether overgrown by the fat
of the publican. Though it was not eleven o'clock, a great tankard of
bitter ale stood upon the table before him, and he was busy cutting up
a plug of black tobacco and rubbing the slices into powder between his
horny fingers. For all his record of desperate battles, he looked what
he was--a good-hearted, respectable householder, law-abiding and kindly,
a happy and prosperous man.

His companion, however, was by no means in the same easy circumstances,
and his countenance wore a very different expression. He was a tall
and well-formed man, some fifteen years younger than the Champion, and
recalling in the masterful pose of his face and in the fine spread of
his shoulders something of the manly beauty which had distinguished
Cribb at his prime. No one looking at his countenance could fail to see
that he was a fighting man by profession, and any judge of the fancy,
considering his six feet in height, his thirteen stone solid muscle,
and his beautifully graceful build, would admit that he had started his
career with advantages which, if they were only backed by the driving
power of a stout heart, must carry him far. Tom Winter, or Spring--as
he chose to call himself--had indeed come up from his Herefordshire home
with a fine country record of local successes, which had been enhanced
by two victories gained over formidable London heavy-weights. Three
weeks before, however, he had been defeated by the famous Painter, and
the set-back weighed heavily upon the young man's spirit.

"Cheer up, lad," said the Champion, glancing across from under his
tufted eyebrows at the disconsolate face of his companion. "Indeed, Tom,
you take it overhard."

The young man groaned, but made no reply. "Others have been beat before