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he heard were pursuing them, too perfectly matched in distance to be coincidental. “George. I do believe we’re being followed.”
    “Are we? Famous! Footpads? The luck really is with me tonight. I shall get that fight after all. How many, think you?”
    “Three, perhaps four, you bloodthirsty fellow,” said James, his own teeth bared in a ferocious grin. There were few enough true thrills for a well-bred gentleman and sportsman. Taking on obliging attackers was a merry end to an evening, a lively test of skills learnt in the rarefied air of Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Salon.
    “Then I shall contrive to leave one for you. Shall we turn in here?” George indicated a narrow and noisome alleyway.
    “It should do nicely,” said James with a quick glance, taking in the dense shadows. As he stepped after George he cast a sideways look back the way they had come and saw four men break away from the walls they hugged, and hurry to catch up.
    “Four indeed. Methinks I see cudgels. There,” he pointed and moved in one swift motion, George on his heels as they ducked into a doorway and stood virtually hidden in the darkness.
    The four footpads were silhouetted against the dim light from the streetlamps, peering into the alley. Whispers were exchanged before they moved forward, cudgels at the ready, straining to see their quarry.
    “On my signal. Take them in a rush. You get the two closer. I’ll take the others,” breathed James directly into George’s ear. He saw George nod.
    Then as the would-be assailants drew level he squeezed George’s shoulder and they both launched out of the doorway. There were startled oaths and James felt a nose bone crunch satisfyingly under his knuckles as he grabbed an upraised cudgel with his other hand.
    Pivoting sharply he wrested it out of the man’s hand and drove his elbow upwards into the dimly-seen face. There was a choking cry and the fellow collapsed. Laying about him with the cudgel he knocked two more to the ground with sturdy blows. One lay still and the other groaned and clutched himself.
    James straightened his slightly rumpled clothes, still loosely grasping the cudgel, and stood patiently waiting as George delivered several sound punches about the head and chest of the last man.
    “Don’t take too long about it, will you?” he finally said.
    “Just warming up, James.” His unwilling sparring partner was trying to dodge around George and escape back up the alley, but George would have none of it.
    “I can’t take you anywhere, can I?” asked James rhetorically. The groaning man on the cobbles gathered himself and started to rise. James rapped him smartly on the head and he fell soundlessly. “I like this stick, I must say. Simple and effective. Maybe I should get myself one.”
    “It looks like you already have,” grunted George, absorbing a wildly thrown blow.
    “True. A souvenir. Come along now George, finish him off.”
    “Yes, quite. Any moment now.”
    “Oh for heaven’s sake!” James stepped forward and delivered a nicely judged tap to the back of the skull. George’s opponent crumpled.
    “ James !” cried George, deeply offended.
    “I haven’t all night to stand around watching you disport yourself.”
    George placed his hands on his hips and shook his head in disgust. “You have no patience, man. You must stop and smell the roses in life. It’s been weeks since I had a good dust up, and now you’ve spoilt it.”
    “My heart bleeds for you. What shall we do with these unlikely fellows?”
    “They belong in Newgate.”
    “Too true, but I’ll be damned if I’m hiring a carriage to convey them there.”
    “We can’t just leave them to prey on passersby,” said George, putting his hands behind his back and starting to walk a contemplative circle around the crumpled forms. He stopped abruptly when something unpleasant squished beneath his foot.
    “How civic-minded of you. Very well. We’ll send a runner to the constabulary.”
    “Where