By Alan Cadman
a jar of porter
On Woking Common an eager crowd is baying for blood. Sovereigns are being exchanged in a flurry between the Victorian gentry. Tom looks up at his younger opponent, who has fire in his feet and iron in his fists. If he can land a lucky punch, just the one, he might beat him. Peelers are nowhere to be seen; the fight is on. Filling his lungs with the damp dawn air, Tom loosens his fogle. He steps up to the scratch and raises his fists. He knows that, one way or another, this is going to be his last fight.