Above the bar, a soot-covered sign read:
EVERY MAN HAS HIS FANCY
RATTING SPORTS IN REALITY
And if people should be uncertain as to the meaning of that sign, their doubts ended at nine o’clock, when Captain Jimmy gave the order to “light up the pit” and the entire assembled company began to file toward the upstairs room, each man carrying his dog, and each man dropping a shilling into the hand of a waiting assistant before ascending the stairs.
The second floor of the Queen’s Head was a large room, as low-ceilinged as the ground floor. This room was wholly devoid of furnishings, and dominated by the pit— a circular arena six feet in diameter, enclosed by slat boards four feet high. The floor of the pit was whitewashed, freshly applied each evening.
As the spectators arrived on the second floor, their dogs immediately came alive, jumping in their owners’ arms, barking vigorously, and straining on the leashes. Captain Jimmy said sternly, “Now you gentlemen that have fancies— shut ’em up,” and there was some attempt to do this, but it was hardly successful, especially when the first cage of rats was brought forth.
At the sight of the rats, the dogs barked and snarled fiercely. Captain Jimmy held the rusty wire cage over his head, waving it in the air; it contained perhaps fifty scampering rats. “Nothing. but the finest, gentlemen,” he announced. “Every one country born, and not a water-ditch among ’em. Who wants to try a rat?”
By now, fifty or sixty people had crammed into the narrow room. Many leaned over the wooden boards of the pit. There was money in every hand, and lively bargaining. Over the general din, a voice from the back spoke up. “I’ll have a try at twenty. Twenty of your best for my fancy.”
“Weigh the fancy of Mr. T.,” Captain Jimmy said, for he knew the speaker. The assistants rushed up and took the bulldog from the arms of a gray-bearded, balding gentleman. The dog was weighed.
“Twenty-seven pounds!” came the cry, and the dog was returned to its owner.
“That’s it, then, gents,” Captain Jimmy said. “Twenty-seven pounds is Mr. T.’s fancy dog, and he has called for a try at twenty rats. Shall it be four minutes?”
Mr. T. nodded in agreement.
“Four minutes it is, gentlemen, and you may wager as you see fit. Make room for Mr. T.”
The gray-bearded gentleman moved up to the edge of the pit, still cradling his dog in his arms. The animal was spotted black and white, and it snarled at the rats opposite. Mr. T. urged his dog on by making snarling and growling noises himself.
“Let’s see them,” Mr. T. said.
The assistant opened the cage and reached in to grab the rats with his bare hand. This was important, for it proved that the rats were indeed country animals, and not infected with any disease. The assistant picked out “twenty of the finest” and tossed them down into the pit. The animals scampered around the perimeter, then finally huddled together in one corner, in a furry mass.
“Are we ready?” called Captain Jimmy, brandishing a stopwatch in his hand.
“Ready,” said Mr. T., making growling and snarling sounds to his dog.
“Blow on ’em! Blow on ’em!” came the cry from the spectators, and various otherwise quite dignified gentlemen puffed and blew toward the rats, raising the fur and sending them into a frenzy.
“Aaannnddd… go!” shouted Captain Jimmy, and Mr. T. flung his dog into the pit. Immediately, Mr. T. crouched down until his head was just above the wooden rim, and from this position he urged his dog on with shouted instructions and canine growls.
The dog leapt forward into the mass of rats, striking out at them, snapping at the necks like the true and well-blooded sport that he was. In an instant he had killed three or four.
The betting spectators screamed and yelled no less than the owner, who never took his eyes from the combat. “That’s it!” shouted Mr. T. “That’s a dead one, drop ‘im, now go! Grrrrrrr! Good, that’s another, drop ‘im. Go! Grrr-rugh!”
The dog moved quickly from one furry body to the next. Then one rat caught hold of his nose and clung tightly; the dog could not shake the rat free.