hing about the affairs of
the district. The assistant strolled down there after tea and asked, in
a casual way, whether the tobacconist had ever heard of the Master of
Croxley.

"Heard of him! Heard of him!" the little man could hardly articulate in
his astonishment. "Why, sir, he's the first mon o' the district, an'
his name's as well known in the West Riding as the winner o' t' Derby.
But Lor,' sir,"--here he stopped and rummaged among a heap of papers.
"They are makin' a fuss about him on account o' his fight wi' Ted
Barton, and so the _Croxley Herald_ has his life an' record, an' here it
is, an' thou canst read it for thysel'"

The sheet of the paper which he held up was a lake of print around an
islet of illustration. The latter was a coarse wood-cut of a pugilist's
head and neck set in a cross-barred jersey. It was a sinister but
powerful face, the face of a debauched hero, clean-shaven, strongly
eye-browed, keen-eyed, with huge, aggressive jaw, and an animal dewlap
beneath it. The long, obstinate cheeks ran flush up to the narrow,
sinister eyes. The mighty neck came down square from the ears and
curved outwards into shoulders, which had lost nothing at the hands of
the local artist. Above was written "Silas Craggs," and beneath,
"The Master of Croxley."

"Thou'll find all about him there, sir," said the tobacconist. "He's a
witherin' tyke, he is, and we're proud to have him in the county. If he
hadn't broke his leg he'd have been champion of England."

"Broke his leg, has he?"

"Yes, and it set badly. They ca' him owd K, behind his back, for that
is how his two legs look. But his arms--well, if they was both stropped
to a bench, as the sayin' is, I wonder where the champion of England
would be then."

"I'll take this with me," said Montgomery; and putting the paper into
his pocket he returned home.

It was not a cheering record which he read there. The whole history of
the Croxley Master was given in full, his many victories, his few
defeats.

Born in 1857 (said the provincial biographer), Silas Craggs, better
known in sporting circles as the Master of Croxley, is now in his
fortieth year.

"Hang it, I'm only twenty-three!" said Montgomery to himself, and read
on more cheerfully.

Having in his youth shown a surprising aptitude for the game, he
fought his way up among his comrades, until he became the
recognised champion of the district and won the proud title which