Ruddock didn’t like what he was hearing. He’d been on patrol before in the sort of residential areas where there was comparatively little trouble. The Thames was very different. It was at once the city’s lifeline with the world and its cesspool. Inns and ordinaries lined its banks. Brothels and gaming houses offered entertainment and false promise. Vibrant by day, it was even more hazardous at night. The dilapidated warehouse was a symbol of the dark underbelly of the capital.
As they strolled on side by side, they were met by what looked at first like a small child. A man’s deep voice came from its throat and they realised that they were talking to a dwarf in ragged attire and with a cap pulled down over his forehead.
‘Good day to ya, gintlemin,’ he said, obsequiously. ‘I’ve good news for ya.’
‘What is it?’ asked Ruddock.
‘Be rand ’ere termorra noight.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s a big fight on.’
‘There’s always fights along the river,’ said Filbert.
‘This one is spishul,’ said the dwarf. ‘Be at the ware’ause termorra.’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Donkey Johns’n is goin’ to beat the Black Assassin.’
‘I’ve heard of Johnson before,’ said Filbert. ‘He beats everyone.’
The dwarf extended a palm. ‘I’m tekkin’ bets that ’e’ll eat the man alive. Want to ’ave a wager, gints?’
‘No, we don’t.’
‘It’d be easy money for ya.’
‘It’d be even easier money for you, you scoundrel,’ said Filbert, pushing him rudely aside. ‘If we were stupid enough to place a bet, we’d never see a penny of our winnings. Be off, before we arrest you for trying to defraud us.’
‘I’m as ’onest as the day is long,’ protested the dwarf. ‘I’ve been tekkin’ bets for years and I allus pays art. Come on, gints. I’ll give ya good odds.’
‘And I’ll give you a good kick up the arse if you keep bothering us. You’re a public nuisance. Crawl back into whichever hole in the ground you sneaked out of.’
Filbert walked off with Ruddock at his side. Neither of them saw the repertoire of crude gestures being made behind their backs by the angry dwarf.
‘You were very harsh with him, Bill,’ observed Ruddock.
‘It’s the only language they understand.’
‘Who is this Donkey Johnson?’
‘He’s a bloodthirsty bruiser who’ll take on any man for money and knock his brains out to please the crowd. I’ve been past here before when Johnson is fighting. The noise from that warehouse is deafening.’
‘Is he going to win tomorrow’s fight, then?’
‘Yes,’ said Filbert. ‘I don’t know who this Black Assassin is but, when it’s all over, his friends will be collecting money for his funeral.’
Moses Dagg had two valuable attributes as a boxer. He had a punch that could knock most men unconscious if it landed in the right place and he was extremely nimble. As they sparred in the sawdust-strewn area in the warehouse, Tom O’Gara was made all too aware of his friend’s skills. Dagg was so light on his feet that he was able to dodge any punches that O’Gara threw at him. In fact, the latter spent most of the time hitting fresh air. His frustration made him try even harder but Dagg was equal to anything that came at him, ducking and weaving and, when he had to take a blow, fending it off expertly with his forearms. When O’Gara was panting for breath, his friend brought an end to his opponent’s misery by delivering an uppercut that caught him on the chin. O’Gara sank to the floor as if he’d been poleaxed.
‘That was wonderful!’ said Fallon, clapping his hands.
‘I don’t think Tom would agree,’ said Dagg, stooping over his friend. ‘Give me a hand to get him up again.’
They hauled him to his feet then lowered him into a chair. Fallon had a bucket of cold water standing by and he laughed as he poured it over the loser’s head. O’Gara slowly recovered.
‘What happened?’ he said, rubbing his chin.
‘Moses put you to sleep.’
‘It was like being kicked by a horse.’
‘Horses are stronger than donkeys,’ said Fallon, ‘as Johnson will find out tomorrow. He’ll have the surprise of his life.’
‘He looked slow to me,’ said Dagg.
‘Yes, Moses, he is. While you prance on your toes, Donkey Johnson lumbers. The trouble is that you’re not only fighting him. If he starts to struggle – and I’ve seen him in difficulties before – he forces his opponent up against the boards so that his friends can get in some sly punches from behind. Remember that. Don’t let him pin you to the boards.’