A second man, who acted as ringmaster in this circus, stepped forward out of the jostling crowd. He jerked a thumb at Caleb’s opponent. The Irishman wiped a hand across his sweating forehead, his eyes narrowing and his breath coming in huffs as if he had run a hundred yards.

‘I calls odds,’ he said, casting Caleb a sideways glance. Odds—the two-way bet of one head and one tail. Nothing either of them could do or say would influence the outcome. It was chance, nothing but chance.

Caleb crossed his arms. ‘I call heads.’

The ringmaster placed the two coins on a flat piece of wood, which he handed to a third man. ‘Come in, spinner,’ he said.

The spinner gave a practised flick of the wrist, sending the pennies twisting into the air. The light of the gas lamp caught their graceful arc as they hovered for a heartbeat and then fell to the grubby flagged floor. One coin fell flat, revealing the well-worn visage of Queen Victoria, but the other continued to spin on its side. The whole room held its breath as the coin resolved itself.

A roar went up.

‘God Bless Her Majesty,’ the ringmaster called. ‘Heads have it.’

Hands slapped Caleb’s back and he released his tightly held breath in a whoosh.

He glanced at his opponent. All the colour had drained from the Irishman’s face and he stared at the two coins as if they might magically resolve themselves into odds, but the gods of chance had spoken and Caleb had prevailed.

‘Again,’ the man said, casting wild glances around the circle of faces. ‘Toss again.’

‘Don’t be a fool, man. You’ve nothing left to bet,’ the boxer said. ‘Sign this paper and be on your way.’

The Irishman’s face coloured and his eyes glinted as he scrawled on the paper the boxer gave him, signing away his life and his livelihood. He turned on Caleb. ‘You cheated. I know you cheated.’

Caleb held up his hands. ‘And how exactly do you think I did that?’

‘I don’t know, but you conned me.’ He lunged at Caleb.

Younger, fitter and more sober, Caleb easily evaded the man’s flailing fists.

The boxer stepped in and gestured to two burly men. ‘Take him outside and dunk him in the horse trough. That’ll cool him down.’

The men ejected the Irishman from the hotel even as he still screamed invectives at Caleb.

The boxer handed over Caleb’s winnings: a bag of coins, the crumpled banknotes and the signed paper.

‘If I was you, mate,’ he said, ‘I’d make myself scarce. You’ve made yourself an enemy there.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ Caleb said. As if one more angry drunk in his life made any difference. He set coins down on the sticky surface of the bar. ‘Drinks for all.’