Mr. Jeremy Johnson, Sr., led his red-bearded customer back through the stables. He was a jovial old man with most of his teeth missing. “Bit of an old gummer myself,” he said, chuckling. “Doesn’t hurt the drinking, though, I’ll tell you that.” He slapped the hindquarters of a horse to push it out of the way. “Move on, move on,” he said, then looked back at Pierce. “Now what is it you’ll be wanting?”
“Your best,” Pierce said.
“That’s what all the gentlemen are wanting,” Mr. Johnson said, with a sigh. “None wants else than the best.”
“I am very particular.”
“Oh, I can see that,” Johnson said. “I can see that, indeed. You’re seeking a learner, so as to polish him yourself?”
“No,” Pierce said, “I want a fully made dog.”
“That’s dear, you know.”
“I know.”
“Very dear, very dear,” Johnson mumbled, moving back through the stable. He pushed open a creaking door, and they came into a small courtyard at the rear. Here were three wood-boarded circular pits, each perhaps six feet in diameter, and caged dogs on all sides. The dogs yelped and barked as they saw the men.
“Very dear, a made dog,” Johnson said. “Takes a proper long training to have a good made dog. Here’s how we do. First we gives the dog to a coster, and he jogs the dog day and day again— to toughen him, you know.”
“I understand,” Pierce said impatiently, “but I—”
“Then,” Johnson continued, “then we puts the learner in with an old gummer— or a young gummer, as the case is now. Lost our gummer a fortnight past, so we took this one”— he pointed to a caged dog— “and yanked all the teeth, so he’s the gummer now. Very good summer he is, too. Knows how to worry a learner— very agile, this gummer is.”
Pierce looked at the gummer. It was a young and healthy dog, barking vigorously. All its teeth were gone, yet it continued to snarl and gull back its lips menacingly. The sight made Pierce laugh.
“Yes, yes, ’tis a bit of a joke,” Johnson said, moving around the enclosure, “but not when you get to this one here. Not here, there’s no joking. Here’s the finest taste dog in all London, I warrant.”
This was a mongrel, larger than a bulldog, and parts of its body had been shaved. Pierce knew the routine: a young dog was first trained in sparring bouts with as old and toothless-veteran; then it was put into the pit with a “taste dog,” which was expendable but had good spirit. It was in the course of sparring with the taste dog that the learner acquired the final skills to go for the kill. The usual practice was to shave the vulnerable parts of the taste dog, encouraging the learner to attack those areas.
“This taster,” Johnson said, “this taster has put the touches on more champions than you can name. You know Mr. Benderby’s dog, the one that bested the Manchester killer last month? Well, this taster here trained Mr. Benderby’s dog. And also Mr. Starrett’s dog, and— oh, a dozen others, all top fighting dogs. Now Mr. Starrett himself, he comes back to me and wants to buy this very taster. Says he wants to have him to worry a badger or two. You know what he offers me? Fifty quid, he offers me. And you know what I say? Not on your life, I say, not fifty quid for this taster.”
Johnson shook his head a little sadly.
“Not for badgers, anyhow,” he said. “Badgers are no proper worry for any fighting dog. No, no. A proper fighting dog is for your dogs, or, if need be, for your rats.” He squinted at Pierce. “You want your dog for ratting? We have special trained ratters,” Mr. Johnson said. “A touch less dear, is why I mention it.”
“I want your very best made dog.”
“And you shall have it, I warrant. Here is the devil’s own, right here.” Johnson paused before a cage. Inside, Pierce saw a bulldog that weighed about forty pounds. The dog growled but did not move. “See that? He’s a confident one. He’s had a good mouthful or two, and he’s well made. Vicious as ever I saw. Some dogs have the instinct, you know— can’t be taught ’em, they just have the instinct to get a good mouthful straightaway. This here one, he’s got the instinct”