"You can drop
out if you like, Fawcett, but I'll see this thing through, if I have to
do it alone. I don't hedge a penny. I like the cut of him a great deal
better than I liked Ted Barton."
"Look at Barton's shoulders, Mr. Wilson."
"Lumpiness isn't always strength. Give me nerve and fire and breed.
That's what wins."
"Ay, sir, you have it theer--you have it theer!" said the fat, red-faced
publican, in a thick suety voice. "It's the same wi' poops. Get 'em
clean-bred an' fine, an' they'll yark the thick 'uns--yark 'em out o'
their skins."
"He's ten good pund on the light side," growled the horse-breaker.
"He's a welter weight, anyhow."
"A hundred and thirty."
"A hundred and fifty, if he's an ounce."
"Well, the Master doesn't scale much more than that."
"A hundred and seventy-five."
"That was when he was hog-fat and living high. Work the grease out of
him and I lay there's no great difference between them. Have you been
weighed lately, Mr. Montgomery?"
It was the first direct question which had been asked him. He had stood
in the midst of them like a horse at a fair, and he was just beginning
to wonder whether he was more angry or amused.
"I am just eleven stone," said he.
"I said that he was a welter weight."
"But suppose you was trained?" said the publican.
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