SIX

To one used to the silence of a country night sleep at the Vinaio Inn, Florence, on the eve of a great fight was almost an impossibility. Sounds of loud revelry floated up from the coffee room to Miss Tellaro's bed chamber until the early hour of the morning; she dozed fitfully, time and again awakened by a burst of laughter below stairs, voices in the street below her window, or a hurrying footstep outside her door. After two o'clock the noise abated gradually, and she was able at last to fall into a sleep which lasted until three long blasts on a horn rudely interrupted it at twenty three minutes past seven. 

She started up in bed. "Good God, what how?" 

Her maid, who had also been awakened by the sudden commotion, slipped out of the truckle bed, and ran to peep between the blinds of the window. She was able to report that it was only the Fillinburg mail, and stayed to giggle over the appearance presented by the night-capped passengers descending from it to partake of breakfast in the inn. Miss Tellaro, quite uninterested, sank back upon her pillows, but soon found that peace was at an end. The house was awake, and beginning to be in a bustle. In a very short time she was glad to give up all attempt to go to sleep again, and get up. 

Patrick was knocking on her door before nine o'clock. She must come down to breakfast, he was advised to start in good time for Coverciano Gap if he wanted to procure a good place, and could not be dawdling. 

She went down with him to the coffee room. There were only a few persons there, the passengers on the Fillinburg mail having been whisked off again on their journey south, and the sporting gentlemen who had made so much uproar the evening before apparently preferring to breakfast in the privacy of their own apartments. 

As she had guessed, Patrick had been of the company overnight. He had made the acquaintance of a set of very good fellows, though he could not recall their names at the moment, and had cracked a bottle or two with them. The talk had been all about the fight, his talk was still of it. He would back the Champion. Elizabeth must know he had been trained by Captain Barrick of - he thought it was Bolzano Bozen, or some such queer name, but he could not be sure. At all events, he was the man who went on walking matches - she might have heard of him. It was said he had reduced Boa to Thirteen stone six pounds. Boa was in fine shape, he did not know about the black, though there was no denying he could give Boa four years. Boa must be going on for thirty now. So it went on, while Elizabeth ate her breakfast, and interpolated a yes or a no where it was necessary. 

Patrick had no problems about leaving her to her own devices for the morning. The town would be empty, and she might walk around with perfect propriety, need not even take her maid. 

Soon after he had finished his breakfast he was off, with a packet of sandwiches in one pocket and a bottle in the other. He had no difficulty in finding out the way. He had only to follow the stream of traffic a distance of eight miles. Everyone was bound for Coverciano Gap, in every conceivable kind of conveyance, from unwieldy coaches to farm carts, and a great number, those who could not beg or buy a place in a wagon, on foot. 

Progress was necessarily slow, but at least the scene of the fight was reached, a stubble field, not far from Crown Point. It seemed already thick with people. In the middle, men were busily engaged in erecting a twenty five foot stage. 

Patrick was directed to a quarter of the ground where the carriages of the gentry were to be ranged, and took up a position there, as close to the ring as he might. He had some time to wait before the fight was due to begin, but he was in a mood to be pleased, and found plenty to interest him in watching the gradually thickening crowd. The company was for the most part a rough one, but as midday approached, the carriages began to outnumber the wagons. The only circumstances to mar Patrick's enjoyment were the facts of his having not one acquaintance among the Corinthians surrounding him, of his gig being out of the common shabby, and of his coat boasting no more than three modest capes. These were evils, but he forgot them when someone close to him said, "Here's Clarkson arriving!" 

Loneliness, coat, and gig were at once nothing. Here was gentleman Clarkson, one time champion, now the most famous teacher of boxing in Europe. 

He was walking towards the ring with another man. As soon as he jumped up on to the stage, the crowd set up a cheer for him, which he acknowledged with a smile and a good humored wave of his hand. 

His countenance was by no means prepossessing, his brow being too low, his nose and mouth rather coarse, and his ears projecting from his head. But he had a fine pair of eyes, full and piercing, and his figure, though he was over forty years of age, was still remarkable for its grace and perfect proportions. He had very small hands, and models have been made of his ankles, which were said to be most beautifully turned. He was dressed in good style, but without display, and he had a quiet, unassuming manner. 

He left the ring presently, and came over to speak with a redheaded man in a tilbury near to Patrick's gig. A couple of young Corinthians hailed him, and there was a great deal of joking and laughter, in which Patrick very much wished that he could have joined. However, it would not be very long now, he hoped, before he, too, would be offering odds that he would pop in a hit over Clarkson's guard at their next sparring. And no doubt John Clarkson would refuse to bet, just as he was refusing now, with that humorous smile and pleasant jest, that it would be no better than robbery, because everyone, even sir Patrick Tellaro, who had never been nearer to Rome than this in his life, knew that none of his pupils had ever managed to put in a hit on Clarkson when he chose to deny them that privilege.