The Croxley Master

The doctor's sermon would have had more effect if the assistant had not once or twice had occasion to test his highest, and come upon it at unexpectedly humble elevations. It is always so particularly easy to "compound for sins we're most inclined to by damning those we have no mind to." In any case, Montgomery felt that of all the men concerned in such a fight--promoters, backers, spectators--it is the actual fighter who holds the strongest and most honourable position. His conscience gave him no concern upon the subject. Endurance and courage are virtues, not vices, and brutality is, at least, better than effeminacy.

There was a little tobacco-shop at the corner of the street, where Montgomery got his bird's-eye and also his local information, for the shopman was a garrulous soul, who knew everything about the affairs of the district. The assistant strolled down there after tea and asked, in a casual way, whether the tobacconist had ever heard of the Master of Croxley.

"Heard of him! Heard of him!" the little man could hardly articulate in his astonishment. "Why, sir, he's the first mon o' the district, an' his name's as well known in the West Riding as the winner o' t' Derby. But Lor,' sir,"--here he stopped and rummaged among a heap of papers. "They are makin' a fuss about him on account o' his fight wi' Ted Barton, and so the _Croxley Herald_ has his life an' record, an' here it is, an' thou canst read it for thysel'"

The sheet of the paper which he held up was a lake of print around an islet of illustration. The latter was a coarse wood-cut of a pugilist's head and neck set in a cross-barred jersey. It was a sinister but powerful face, the face of a debauched hero, clean-shaven, strongly eye-browed, keen-eyed, with huge, aggressive jaw, and an animal dewlap beneath it. The long, obstinate cheeks ran flush up to the narrow, sinister eyes. The mighty neck came down square from the ears and curved outwards into shoulders, which had lost nothing at the hands of the local artist. Above was written "Silas Craggs," and beneath, "The Master of Croxley."

"Thou'll find all about him there, sir," said the tobacconist. "He's a witherin' tyke, he is, and we're proud to have him in the county. If he hadn't broke his leg he'd have been champion of England."

"Broke his leg, has he?"

"Yes, and it set badly. They ca' him owd K, behind his back, for that is how his two legs look. But his arms--well, if they was both stropped to a bench, as the sayin' is, I wonder where the champion of England would be then."

"I'll take this with me," said Montgomery; and putting the paper into his pocket he returned home.

It was not a cheering record which he read there. The whole history of the Croxley Master was given in full, his many victories, his few defeats.

   Born in 1857 (said the provincial biographer), Silas Craggs, better
   known in sporting circles as the Master of Croxley, is now in his
   fortieth year.

"Hang it, I'm only twenty-three!" said Montgomery to himself, and read on more cheerfully.

   Having in his youth shown a surprising aptitude for the game, he
   fought   his way up among his comrades, until he became the
   recognised champion of the district and won the proud title which
   he still holds.  Ambitious of a more than local fame, he secured a
   patron, and fought his first fight against Jack Barton, of
   Birmingham, in May 1880, at the old Loiterers' Club.  Craggs,
   who fought at ten stone-two at the time, had the better of fifteen
   rattling rounds, and gained an award on points against the Midlander.
   Having disposed of James Dunn, of Rotherhithe, Cameron, of Glasgow,
   and a youth named Fernie, he was thought so highly of by the fancy
   that he was matched against Ernest Willox, at that time
   middle-weight champion of the North of England, and defeated him in a
   hard-fought battle, knocking him out in the tenth round after a
   punishing contest.  At this period it looked as if the very highest
   honours of the ring were within the reach of the young Yorkshireman,
   but he was laid upon the shelf by a most unfortunate accident.  The
   kick of a horse broke his thigh, and for a year he was compelled to
   rest himself.  When he returned to his work the fracture had set
   badly, and his activity was much impaired.  It was owing to this
   that he was defeated in seven rounds by Willox, the man whom he had
   previously beaten, and afterwards by James Shaw, of London, though
   the latter acknowledged that he had found the toughest customer of
   his career.  Undismayed by his reverses, the Master adapted the
   style of his fighting to his physical disabilities and resumed his
   career of victory--defeating Norton (the black), Hobby Wilson, and
   Levi Cohen, the latter a heavy-weight.  Conceding two stone, he
   fought a draw with the famous Billy McQuire, and afterwards, for
   a purse of fifty pounds, he defeated Sam Hare at the Pelican Club,
   London.  In 1891 a decision was given against him upon a foul when
   fighting a winning fight against Jim Taylor, the Australian middle
   weight, and so mortified was he by the decision, that he withdrew
   from the ring.  Since then he has hardly fought at all save to
   accommodate any local aspirant who may wish to learn the difference
   between a bar-room scramble and a scientific contest.  The latest
   of these ambitious souls comes from the Wilson coal-pits, which have
   undertaken to put up a stake of 100 pounds and back their local
   champion.  There are various rumours afloat as to who their
   representative is to be, the name of Ted Barton being freely
   mentioned; but the betting, which is seven to one on the Master
   against any untried man, is a fair reflection of the feeling of
   the community.

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