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exertions, apparently oblivious to all about him. However, they knew better now. Mary climbed down from her tankard. She glanced up at James, read the question in his eyes and nodded.
    They began to pick their way towards the door, through a crowd that was eerily subdued. The proprietor, who despaired of seeing his drinks sales drop off, made an announcement. “As a mark of respect for Mr Bates, we will have a short interval to drink to his quick recovery.” His words struck the wrong note – there would be no such thing as a “quick recovery” for Bates, and every person in the room knew it – but the act of speech itself was a much-needed release valve. Men began to murmur and look about them as though waking from a deep sleep.
    James couldn’t get outside fast enough. Assuming that Robert Bates didn’t die from infection and blood poisoning, he would certainly never fight again. He might never work again, either. Although prizefighters deliberately risked their bodies for money and glory, that seemed too severe a punishment for what amounted to losing one’s temper in the ring. As for Ching’s extraordinary skill, the way he’d choreographed both fights – for those things, he had James’s reluctant admiration. Yet James was, at core, thoroughly English. He’d been taught to value fair play and good sportsmanship. While Ching had technically observed the rules, it still seemed unsporting to toy for so long with hopelessly unequal opponents, to shame them so extravagantly. Perhaps that was the way they did things in China: all glory to the strongest and to hell with the others. But James couldn’t help thinking it was an attitude that would land a man in keen difficulty in London.
    This evening’s escapade had been an error. It would be well if they never heard of Mr Ching again.

Four
    M ary kept close behind James, focusing on his broad shoulders as he carved a path for them through the jammed room. They nearly fell out of the door into the welcome cold, drawing deep breaths of the thick, almost liquid air. By common consent, they did not pause but turned northwards and began to walk, side by side. She wished she could take James’s arm; that was impossible while in boys’ clothing, so she shoved her hands deep into her trouser pockets instead. It wasn’t until they were well clear of Leicester Square that she spoke, and then the words tumbled from her mouth. “Do you think Mr Ching will be blamed for Robert Bates’s injury?”
    “Legally, it would be impossible to prove. He literally didn’t lay a finger upon Bates.”
    “I didn’t mean legally. I was thinking of mob logic. Or the lack thereof.”
    “Yes. It was foolish of Ching utterly to humiliate both his opponents. He could have offered them softer, more marginal losses.”
    “Isn’t bloodthirsty spectacle the whole idea? The more savage, the better?”
    “You’re asking me as a spokesman for all males? I haven’t the faintest idea. For some, I suppose.” James paused. “I think Ching will find that he’s created a large number of enemies. Bates, especially, will have friends who will take his destruction personally. It’s one thing to lose a fight, another thing entirely to lose a hand and possibly the ability to support oneself.”
    “You think they may attempt revenge? Gang up on Ching?”
    “It’s not unheard of.”
    She was silent for a moment, her head spinning. “Then we need to warn him.”
    James spun to look at her. “What did you say?”
    She stopped and met his gaze. “Mr Ching. He’s a foreigner. He doesn’t know the rules, the history. If you think it’s likely that he’ll be attacked, then he deserves to know.”
    He looked baffled. “Mary, he’s a prizefighter. Risks like these are inherent in his sort of work.”
    “You seem to see a difference between the risks run by Ching and the risks run by Bates. They both chose to fight, and they were both in control of their actions in the ring. Do you concede