wear."

Tom Cribb's blank face had assumed an expression of absolute despair.

"No second, no clothes, no shoes--it don't seem regular. I give you my
word, ma'am, I feel ashamed to be mixed up in such a fight. I don't know
as you can call the thing a fight where there is no second. It's just
a scramble--nothing more. I've gone too far to wash my hands of it now,
but I wish I had never touched it."

In spite of all professional misgivings on the part of the Champion and
his pupil, the imperious will of the woman prevailed, and everything
was carried out exactly as she had directed. At nine o'clock Tom Spring
found himself upon the box-seat of the Brighton coach, and waved his
hand in goodbye to burly Tom Cribb, who stood, the admired of a ring of
waiters and ostlers, upon the doorstep of the Golden Cross. It was in
the pleasant season when summer is mellowing into autumn, and the
first golden patches are seen amid the beeches and the ferns. The young
country-bred lad breathed more freely when he had left the weary streets
of Southwark and Lewisham behind him, and he watched with delight the
glorious prospect as the coach, whirled along by six dapple greys,
passed by the classic grounds of Knowle, or after crossing Riverside
Hill skirted the vast expanse of the Weald of Kent. Past Tonbridge
School went the coach, and on through Southborough, until it wound down
a steep, curving road with strange outcrops of sandstone beside it, and
halted before a great hostelry, bearing the name which had been given
him in his directions. He descended, entered the coffee-room, and
ordered the underdone steak which his trainer had recommended. Hardly
had he finished it when a servant with a mulberry coat and a peculiarly
expressionless face entered the apartment.

"Beg your pardon, sir, are you Mr. Spring--Mr. Thomas Spring, of
London?"

"That is my name, young man."

"Then the instructions which I had to give you are that you wait for one
hour after your meal. After that time you will find me in a phaeton at
the door, and I will drive you in the right direction."

The young pugilist had never been daunted by any experience which had
befallen him in the ring. The rough encouragement of his backers, the
surge and shouting of the multitude, and the sight of his opponent had
always cheered his stout heart and excited him to prove himself worthy
of being the centre of such a scene. But his loneliness and uncertainty
were deadly. He fl