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and forbade a man's being hit when down. All this science, however, did
not render him a pedant, nor destroy his ease of manner in society.
When he was referee, rough, pimple-faced, unshorn friends of either
combatant never dared to come to the aid of their failing man, nor, in
order to upset the chances of the betting, jumped over the barrier,
entered the ring, broke the ropes, pulled down the stakes, and violently
interposed in the battle. Lord David was one of the few referees whom
they dared not thrash.
No one could train like him. The pugilist whose trainer he consented to
become was sure to win. Lord David would choose a Hercules--massive as a
rock, tall as a tower--and make him his child. The problem was to turn
that human rock from a defensive to an offensive state. In this he
excelled. Having once adopted the Cyclops, he never left him. He became
his nurse; he measured out his wine, weighed his meat, and counted his
hours of sleep. It was he who invented the athlete's admirable rules,
afterwards reproduced by Morley. In the mornings, a raw egg and a glass
of sherry; at twelve, some slices of a leg of mutton, almost raw, with
tea; at four, toast and tea; in the evening, pale ale and toast; after
which he undressed his man, rubbed him, and put him to bed. In the
street he never allowed him to leave his sight, keeping him out of every
danger--runaway horses, the wheels of carriages, drunken soldiers,
pretty girls. He watched over his virtue. This maternal solicitude
continually brought some new perfection into the pupil's education. He
taught him the blow with the fist which breaks the teeth, and the twist
of the thumb which gouges out the eye. What could be more touching?
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