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.
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