Rodney Stone | Page 6

man that he had been. It
chanced one summer morning, when Boy Jim and I were standing by
the smithy door, that there came a private coach from Brighton, with its
four fresh horses, and its brass-work shining, flying along with such a
merry rattle and jingling, that the Champion came running out with a
hall-fullered shoe in his tongs to have a look at it. A gentleman in a
white coachman's cape--a Corinthian, as we would call him in those
days--was driving, and half a dozen of his fellows, laughing and
shouting, were on the top behind him. It may have been that the bulk of
the smith caught his eye, and that he acted in pure wantonness, or it
may possibly have been an accident, but, as he swung past, the
twenty-foot thong of the driver's whip hissed round, and we heard the
sharp snap of it across Harrison's leather apron.
"Halloa, master!" shouted the smith, looking after him. "You're not to
be trusted on the box until you can handle your whip better'n that."

"What's that?" cried the driver, pulling up his team.
"I bid you have a care, master, or there will be some one-eyed folk
along the road you drive."
"Oh, you say that, do you?" said the driver, putting his whip into its
socket and pulling off his driving-gloves. "I'll have a little talk with you,
my fine fellow."
The sporting gentlemen of those days were very fine boxers for the
most part, for it was the mode to take a course of Mendoza, just as a
few years afterwards there was no man about town who had not had the
mufflers on with Jackson. Knowing their own prowess, they never
refused the chance of a wayside adventure, and it was seldom indeed
that the bargee or the navigator had much to boast of after a young
blood had taken off his coat to him.
This one swung himself off the box-seat with the alacrity of a man who
has no doubts about the upshot of the quarrel, and after hanging his
caped coat upon the swingle-bar, he daintily turned up the ruffled cuffs
of his white cambric shirt.
"I'll pay you for your advice, my man," said he.
I am sure that the men upon the coach knew who the burly smith was,
and looked upon it as a prime joke to see their companion walk into
such a trap. They roared with delight, and bellowed out scraps of
advice to him.
"Knock some of the soot off him, Lord Frederick!" they shouted. "Give
the Johnny Raw his breakfast. Chuck him in among his own cinders!
Sharp's the word, or you'll see the back of him."
Encouraged by these cries, the young aristocrat advanced upon his man.
The smith never moved, but his mouth set grim and hard, while his
tufted brows came down over his keen, grey eyes. The tongs had fallen,
and his hands were hanging free.
"Have a care, master," said he. "You'll get pepper if you don't."
Something in the assured voice, and something also in the quiet pose,
warned the young lord of his danger. I saw him look hard at his
antagonist, and as he did so, his hands and his jaw dropped together.
"By Gad!" he cried, "it's Jack Harrison!"
"My name, master!"
"And I thought you were some Essex chaw-bacon! Why, man, I haven't
seen you since the day you nearly killed Black Baruk, and cost me a

cool hundred by doing it."
How they roared on the coach.
"Smoked! Smoked, by Gad!" they yelled. "It's Jack Harrison the bruiser!
Lord Frederick was going to take on the ex-champion. Give him one on
the apron, Fred, and see what happens."
But the driver had already climbed back into his perch, laughing as
loudly as any of his companions.
"We'll let you off this time, Harrison," said he. "Are those your sons
down there?"
"This is my nephew, master."
"Here's a guinea for him! He shall never say I robbed him of his uncle."
And so, having turned the laugh in his favour by his merry way of
taking it, he cracked his whip, and away they flew to make London
under the five hours; while Jack Harrison, with his half- fullered shoe
in his hand, went whistling back to the forge.


CHAPTER II
--THE WALKER OF CLIFFE ROYAL

So much for Champion Harrison! Now, I wish to say something more
about Boy Jim, not only because he was the comrade of my youth, but
because you will find as you go on that this book is his story rather than
mine, and that there came a time when his name and his fame were in
the mouths of all England. You will bear with