Free Folly's Reward by Jean R. Ewing Page A

only response seemed to be helpless laughter.
    “What’s happening, Miss Drake?” Bobby cried, clutching her hand. “What are they going to do to Hal?”

Chapter 5
     
    Hal had let Prudence follow after Bobby without interference. Then he surveyed the public bar and weighed up his chances of mending his fortunes.
    If he was to follow Miss Drake past Carlisle, he must parlay his few shillings into guineas. He had no idea what skills he might possess that would enable him to do so. He could shoot, of course, but he had no pistol and there was no one in this motley crowd who seemed likely to want to wager on a shooting match.
    Perhaps he had skill at dice or cards, but he couldn’t risk his small purse while he found out. In the meantime it seemed that the only thing about to be tested was his head for hard liquor, for every man there seemed eager to buy him a drink.
    Hal tossed back innumerable toasts, knowing that he would soon be forced to pay for their treat in turn. Was nothing to come out of this but a sore head and depleted pockets? He reluctantly downed another potent glass.
    “And here’s the truth of it, then,” one of the drunks was shouting to the crowd. “That yon Sassenach are nae match for a Scots fighting man. It’s aye the Scots at the front of every battle.”
    “There’s ne’er a lad south of the border can match ye, Jamie,” another replied soothingly. “Ye are the very de’il of a man in a fight and we all ken it fine.”
    “Then wha’ll fight me the night?” Jamie insisted, his red-rimmed eyes sweeping the room. “O’ all yon English loons.” He waved a fist with the stubby forefinger pointing in menace, indicating several of the Englishmen there. “Wha’ll put up his fives, eh?”
    “Yon English are all lubberly cowards and we all ken it. It’s a braw, bonny, fine figure of fighter ye are, lad. There’s nae Sassenach could stand one round against ye, Jamie.”
    “And would you wager your blunt on that, sir?” someone said in a cultured London accent. “I’ll give a purse of ten guineas to any Englishman here that proves you wrong.”
    Hal glanced at the speaker, a tall fellow with brown hair and a nose like a beak. His clothes spoke of wealth, his voice of an idle, cultivated boredom, ready for anything that would act as an entertaining distraction from the routines of life.
    The crowd cheered as the gentleman pulled out a purse and counted out the prize money.
    His brown eye rested speculatively for a moment on Hal. “Who will stand up for the honor of his country?”
    “What a perfect, apposite, and absurd end to a splendid day! I’ll be happy to take the challenge,” Hal heard himself say in what seemed to be an inebriated show of bravado. “But for twenty guineas and a bonus, if I level Mr. James in one blow.”
    “I’ll wager ye twa shillings that yon sleekit Englishman will nae stand up to one round with Braw Jamie.”
    Hal was instantly deafened by an uproar of speculation.
    So as the betting books filled, Hal found himself manhandled out into the courtyard, where under the flare of the flambeaux Jamie was stripping off his coat and shirt. The man was muscled like an ox.
    Hal heard a faint echo of his own voice saying: I feel as if I just took the worst from the knuckles of Gentleman Jackson . He had no idea if that had been just an idle boast, or if he did indeed know how to box. Even if he did, would the half-drunk Jamie follow the gentleman’s code, or just start swinging like a savage?
    Of course, Hal wasn’t quite as clear headed himself as he would like to have been, which added a certain piquancy to the event.
    The mob rapidly divested him of his coat and shirt. Cold air washed over his back and chest like a rush of snowmelt running off a mountain. Feeling instantly more sober, Hal wrapped his knuckles in strips of cloth provided by the plump woman, and assessed his chances.
    He had been driving all day. His shoulders and arms were still burning with