Unequal fights always engage both our sympathy and our interest, and Tom Sayers was hardly ever matched with a man of anything at all near his own height and weight. William Perry, commonly called the Tipton Slasher, from the place of his birth in the Black Country, was Champion of England. He had fought ten big battles and had beaten good men, including Tass Parker twice. He had held the championship for four years when Sayers challenged him.

It was looked upon as an absurd match. Sayers was a lightish middleweight of 5 feet 8 inches. The Slasher now weighed about 14 stone and stood over 6 feet. He laughed at Sayers’s challenge. He was utterly confident, knowing that he was bigger, stronger, and heavier, and believing that he was the better boxer. Nevertheless, Sayers found backing, and on June 16th, 1857, they fought for £200 a side and the belt.

These were the days when it was not sufficient in the interests of sport merely to pitch a ring on the boundary of two, or possibly three, counties, so that while the magistrates of one county might interfere, the principals and their followers had only to slip over the border into the next. In the fifties, and earlier, the law was much more stringently enforced, and vast expeditions used to leave London by special train to destinations unknown. In the present instance, an enormous crowd packed the train at Fenchurch Street Station. Tom Sayers was on it, but disguised, in case the police, who knew perfectly who the combatants were, searched the train. William Perry was picked up at Tilbury on the journey eastwards. At Southend the crowd left the train and embarked on a steamer which proceeded to mid-channel, and then altering her course, put down her freight of sportsmen, fighters, and ruffians at the Isle of Grain. Two more steamers now arrived, and a ring was made, out of sight of the river, in a field beneath a dyke. The first stake had hardly been driven in, when the police appeared—in what to us, now, would seem the picturesque costume of blue coats, white trousers, and glazed toppers. The crowd of 3000 men rapidly re-embarked in the waiting steamers, and the two boxers, hidden like leaves in a forest, escaped. They crossed the river, and, disembarking once more on the Kentish coast, were so lucky as to find a sporting farmer who gladly let the officials have the use of one of his fields in return for a place at the ring-side, which was joyfully awarded him. Here, behind the farm buildings, which hid the proceedings from passing ships, the ring was once more pegged out: the colours were tied to the stakes, blue with large white spots for Sayers, blue birds’ eye for the Slasher. The two men were each seconded by old opponents who had become friends; Nat Langham and Bill Hayes in Sayers’s corner, Tass Parker and Jack Macdonald in Perry’s.

People said that there had been nothing like this since the days of Johnson and Perrins. For the Tipton Slasher was a magnificent giant, with the enormous shoulder-blades which stand for hard hitting, though a slight deformity in one leg had given him the nickname of “Old K Legs.” But there was not an ounce of tallow on him. He was thirty-eight years of age, and looked more, for all his front upper teeth had been knocked out and his face was covered with the scars of old wounds. Little Tom Sayers was neatly built, clean-limbed, and in superb condition, but every one present when they saw the two standing up, facing one another, wondered how, with his comparatively short reach, he was going to hit the Slasher at all.

There are two ways of beginning a fight, and Perry chose the wrong one. Directly they had shaken hands and their seconds had retired to their respective corners he lunged out, aiming a tremendous hit and wasted it on the air. Not once nor twice did he misjudge his distance and throw away his strength in this manner, while Sayers nimbly jumped aside, or back, leading him round the ring. The Slasher was furious. “Coom and fight me,” he said. “Don’t ’ee go skirling about like a bloody dancing master.” And Tom laughed at him. He knew perfectly well what he was about. He would make the giant tire himself out and then he would hit him at his own leisure. The Slasher, on the other hand, believed that one hit from him—one really good hit such as he alone could deliver—would finish his little opponent, and he tried again and again to put in such a blow. At first Tom Sayers was content to avoid them and leave well alone, but after a while he saw a perfect opening as he slipped his man’s ponderous left, and he sent his own left in, straight, with all his might. It landed on the Slasher’s nose and he snorted and gasped. That was a wonderful punch for so small a man. He began to feel a little uncomfortable. He couldn’t be beaten, surely, by this monkey of a fellow. Still, it was disconcerting. And the more uncertain he became the wilder he grew. He was soon puffing and blowing from his frantic exertions to land just that one beauty which should knock Sayers out of time.

Then quite suddenly Tom Sayers reached the point when he could resist fighting no longer. It was all very well dodging and jumping out of harm’s way and putting in an occasional counter-hit: and it was the right way to tackle a giant like William Perry. But Sayers was a fighter and he loved to “mix it.” And so he restrained himself less and instead of running away he stood up to the Slasher. Tom ducked from the next mighty blow which swished through the air over his head, and again he ducked and this time the Tipton Slasher followed up one failure with several, and sent blow after blow into thin air. There came a chuckle of delight from behind him, and swinging round he saw Sayers dancing about and laughing at him. The big man looked extremely foolish. His seconds now roundly swore at him for wasting his strength, and told him that he ought to wait. But Perrins was angry and he went on beating the air. After a while, however, he did manage to land a good blow, which caught Sayers on the forehead and knocked him down flat. The onlookers gasped, for they thought that such a blow would kill the little man. But when time was called up he came still grinning and none the worse save for a bump like an egg. Now the Slasher was much happier. Two or three more like that and the fight would be over. But Sayers knew every trick of his trade, though he never descended to the dirty ones. He pretended now to be really frightened, and instead of slipping and laughing, he kept running away round the ring. But he was ready all the time and perfectly cool. He kept his right foot behind his left and never crossed his feet. Lumbering after him and playing the game he wanted him to play, came the Tipton Slasher. Then to save his breath Perry at length pulled up. Instantly, Sayers stopped also and plugged him in the face.

In the ninth round the Slasher came up to the scratch slowly. His seconds had done their best for him, but his strength was going. It is very exhausting to dash about a grassy ring and hurl ponderous blows at nothing. Once more he tried, but he couldn’t get near Sayers. But now he was too tired to keep running after his opponent, and Sayers stood his ground. The next time the mighty fist shot out he ducked under it again and sent in a smashing blow on the Slasher’s face. In that round he put in at least three perfect hits with every ounce of his weight behind them. At the third the Tipton Slasher staggered, and fell over. It was not a severe knock-down because the big man was badly balanced at the moment, but the spectators could see that he was beaten all the same. Then Sayers hit him as he liked, left and right: no dancing or running away now. The Slasher’s seconds begged him to give in. They saw that it was hopeless, but this he refused to do. He would fight as long as he could see and stand. It is terribly humiliating to be thrashed by a man half your size, but William Perry was brave, and he faced that fact as well as the more pressing one. For he was dreadfully cut about. His seconds carried out all the usual receipts for bringing their man to the scratch again, biting his ears and sluicing him with cold water. The onlookers called out to have the Slasher taken away, but he would not be taken away. Tom Sayers stood in the mid-ring with his arms folded, waiting for his antagonist. He did not in the least want to hurt him, but what was he to do? At last Owen Swift, who was prominent amongst the Slasher’s supporters, got through the ropes into the ring and held up his hand. The sponge was then thrown up from the Slasher’s corner, and Tom Sayers was proclaimed Champion of England.

The battle had lasted for an hour and forty-two minutes. The Slasher wept bitterly when Sayers came over to shake hands. He had staked every penny he had on the fight, and was, besides being beaten, utterly ruined. “Something” was done for him afterwards, so that he was able to take the inevitable inn and spent the rest of his days in comparative comfort. He answered the final call of “Time” in January, 1881.