Free The Great Train Robbery by Michael Crichton

nose and clung tightly; the dog could not shake the rat free.
    “Twister! Twister!” shrieked the crowd.
    The dog writhed, got free, and raced after the others. Now there were six rats killed, their bodies lying on the blood-streaked pit floor.
    “Two minutes past,” called Captain Jimmy.
    “Hi, Lover, good Lover,” screamed Mr. T. “Go, boy. Grrrrh! That’s one, now drop ’im. Go, Lover!”
    The dog raged around the arena, pursuing its quarry; the crowd screamed and pounded the wooden slats to keep the animals in a frenzy. At one point Lover had four rats clinging to his face and body, and still he kept going, crunching a fifth in his strong jaws. In the midst of all this furious excitement, no one noticed a red-bearded gentleman of dignified bearing who pushed his way through the crowd until he was standing alongsideMr. T., whose attention remained wholly focused on the dog.
    “Three minutes,” Captain Jimmy called. There was a groan from several in the crowd. Three minutes gone and only twelve rats dead; those who had bet on Mr. T.’s fancy were going to lose their money.
    Mr. T. himself did not seem to hear the time. His eyes never left the dog; he barked and yelped; he twisted his body, writhing with the dog he owned; he snapped his jaws and screamed orders until he was hoarse.
    “Time!” shouted Captain Jimmy, waving his stopwatch. The crowd sighed and relaxed. Lover was pulled from the arena; the three remaining rats were deftly scooped up by the assistants.
    The ratting match was over; Mr. T. had lost.
    “Bloody good try,” said the red-bearded man, in consolation.
    The paradoxes inherent in Mr. Edgar Trent’s behavior at the Queen’s Head pub—indeed, in his very presence in such surroundings—require some explanation.
    In the first place, a man who was the senior partner of a bank, a devout Christian, and a pillar of the respectable community would never think to associate himself with members of the lower orders. Quite the contrary: Mr. Trent devoted considerable time and energy to keeping those people in their proper place, and he did so with the firm and certain knowledge that he was helping to maintain good social order.
    Yet there were a few places in Victorian society where members of all classes mingled freely, and chief among these were sporting events—the prize ring, the turf, and, of course, the baiting sports. All these activities were either disreputable or flatly illegal, and their supporters, derived from every stratum of society, shared a common interest that permitted them to overlookthe breakdown of social convention upon such occasions. And if Mr. Trent saw no incongruity in his presence among the lowest street hawkers and costers, it is also true that the hawkers and costers, usually tongue-tied and uneasy in the presence of gentlemen, were equally relaxed at these sporting events, laughing and nudging freely men whom they would not dare to touch under ordinary circumstances.
    Their common interest—animal baiting—had been a cherished form of amusement throughout Western Europe since medieval times. But in Victorian England animal sports were dying out rapidly, the victim of legislation and changing public tastes. The baiting of bulls or bears, common at the turn of the century, was now quite rare; cockfighting was found only in rural centers. In London in 1854, only three animal sports remained popular, and all concerned dogs.
    Nearly every foreign observer since Elizabethan times has commented on the affection Englishmen lavish upon their dogs, and it is odd that the very creature most dear to English hearts should be the focus of these flagrantly sadistic “sporting events.”
    Of the three dog sports, dogs set against other dogs was considered the highest “art” of animal sport. This sport was sufficiently widespread that many London criminals made a good living working exclusively as dog thieves, or “fur-pullers.” But dogfights were relatively uncommon, since