Malarkey tapped her on the head with his riding crop.

“Capital. Neither do we. No holds barred is all the legal we have here.”

With a single bound, Malarkey mounted a central platform where there was a squat wooden and velvet throne, resplendent with a mightily horned, shaggy ram’s fleece. He aimed a kick at a monkey who sat in the king’s spot, then twirled on his heel, falling neatly into the throne. Malarkey smiled for a moment with paternal indulgence at the various forms of criminal mayhem unfurling all around, then snagged a brass speaking trumpet from its leather holster on the arm of his throne. “Listen, Rams,” he called, his voice projected yet tinny.

“Who among you fine sporting gents fancies a wager with your king?”

The word spread like the plague through the assembled rabble, and soon they were clamoring for sport at the feet of their king.

“Very well, Rams,” said Malarkey, rising to his feet. “I have a belter for you this evening, to delay you indoors awhile when you should be outside performing your customary honest labors.” A raucous laugh rose to the very roof at the partnering of the words honest and labors.

“I, your chosen monarch, in sight of the sacred fleece, offer you a wager. And I am telling you coves right from the off that you won’t be taking a ha’penny of my hard-earned. So, who’s got the bottle?”

Many hands went up, and some even tossed coins to the foot of the dais.

“Not so fast, my eager bucks. Let me fill you in on the details, lest there be accusations of cheatin’ flying around laterwise.” Malarkey leaned over, plucking Riley and Chevie from the crowd. “So, my people, what we have here are two possible recruits. A fine little grifter with fast ’ands, and his Injun princess. I’ve instructed ’em only one fights, and that one fights for two.”

“I’ll take him,” said the knifed swimmer.

Malarkey waved him away. “No, you ain’t heard the best bit. The one that’s stepping up is the young lady.”

This announcement was met with pandemonium. “We can’t have a lady on the canvas,” objected the challenger, backing into the throng.

Malarkey stamped a foot. “You have beheld my champion, Rams. Now, show me yours!”

There was no immediate response to this challenge. It was not a matter of cowardice; it was the left-footed awkwardness of tussling with a female in public.

But not all were awkward: one man soon skipped to the front of the line.

“I will crack her skull for her.”

The contender was a bald six-footer with bandy legs from carrying his beer gut.

“Can I use me bludgeon? I never fights without it for reasons of balance.”

Malarkey was shocked. “Use yer bludgeon? Of course you can use yer bludgeon, Mr. Skelp. I would never deprive a brother of his beloved weapon of choice.”