At supper that night the talk was naturally of the fight, and old Jack Gully, who had refereed, held the floor. He wasn’t normally an over-talkative man, despite the fact that he had been an M.P., but on his two loves—the prize ring and horseflesh—he was always worth listening to. Though it was more than thirty years since he had held the belt himself—and since retiring he had become most prosperous and was well received everywhere—he had known and seen all the greatest pugs, and was full of stories of such giants as Cribb and Belcher and the Game Chicken.12

Of course, the company would have listened all night—I don’t suppose there was a man in England, Peel, Russell, or any of them, who could have commanded such universal attention as this quiet old boxing champion. He must have been close to sixty then, and white-haired, but you could see he was still fit as a flea, and when he talked of the ring he seemed to light up and come alive.

Bismarck, I noticed, didn’t pay him much attention, but when Jack paused after a story, our German suddenly says:

“You make very much of this boxing, I see. Now, it is an interesting enough spectacle, two of the lower orders thrashing each other with their fists, but does it not become boring after a while? Once, or even twice, perhaps, one might go to watch, but surely men of education and breeding must despise it.”

There was a growl round the table, and Speed says:

“You don’t understand it because you’re a foreigner. It is our game in England. Why, in Germany, according to what you’ve said, fellows fight duels without any intent to kill each other, but just to get scars on their heads. Well, we wouldn’t think much of that, let me tell you.”

“The schlager endows a man with honourable scars,” says Bismarck. “What honour is there in beating an opponent with your fists? Besides, our duelling is for gentlemen.”

“Well, as to that, mynheer.” says Gully, smiling, “gentlemen in this country ain’t ashamed to use their fists. I know I wish I’d a guinea for every coroneted head I’ve touched with a straight left hand.”

“Mine for one, any time you please, Jack,” cries Conyngham.

“But in the use of the schlager there is soldierly skill,” Bismarck insisted, and rapped his fist on the table. Oho, thinks I, what’s this? Has our Prussian friend perhaps got a little more liquor on board than usual? He was a mighty drinker, as I’ve said, but it occurred to me that he might not be holding it so well tonight.

“If you think there’s no skill in prize-fighting, my friend, you’re well out of court,” says one of the others, a heavy-faced Guardee named Spottswood. “Didn’t you see Ward, this afternoon, take the starch out of a chap three stone heavier than himself?”

“Oh, your fellow Ward was swift and strong,” says Bismarck. “But speed and strength are common enough. I saw no sign of skill in that butchery.”