Thus terminated the great fight of the day, but not thus my day's
adventures.
The sport was all that the most enthusiastic supporters of the Ring
could desire. It no doubt had its barbarous aspects, regarded from
a humanitarian point of view, but it was not so demoralizing as the
spectacle of some poor creature risking his neck in a performance
for which the spectator pays his sixpence, and the whole excitement
consists in the knowledge that the actor may be dashed to pieces
before his eyes.
It was time now to leave the scene, so Charley and I went to look for
our gig (evidence of gentility from the time of Thurtell and Hunt's
trial for the murder of Mr. Weare).
Alas! our respectability was gone--I mean the gig.
In vindication of the wisdom and foresight of Charley and myself, I
should like to mention that we had entrusted that valuable evidence of
our status to the keeping of a worthy stranger dressed in an old red
jacket and a pair of corduroy trousers fastened with a wisp of hay
below the knees.
When we arrived at the spot where he promised to wait our coming, he
was gone, the horse and gig too; nor could any inquiries ascertain
their whereabouts.
Whether this incident was a judgment on the Quaker, as Wright
suggested, or one of the inevitable incidents attendant on a
prize-fight, I am not in a position to say; but we thought it served
the Quaker right for letting us a horse that would not go until the
gentleman in the red jacket relieved us of any further trouble on that
account.
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