Tom Sayers was the last of the great champions of England under the old dispensation. And, as champions go, he was a little man, standing 5 feet 8 inches and usually weighing about 11 stone. He was born at Brighton in 1826, and as a lad was apprenticed to a bricklayer there. At the age of twenty-two he came to London to work on the London and North-Western Railway. He was known from a lad as being fairly handy with the gloves, and in more than one pot-house brawl he had shown more than that he could take care of himself. In all his fights, with one exception, he gave away weight. His first battle was in 1849, with Abe Crouch, who was two stone the heavier and whom Sayers decisively thrashed. He fought for two and a half hours with Jack Grant of Southwark, and just beat him after an extraordinary display of pluck.

Sayers’s only defeat was at the hands of Nat Langham, in October of 1853. And this beating was certainly due to over-confidence, not during, but before the fight. The men were nearly equal in weight and Langham was six years older. As he had been used to giving other opponents as many stone as he was giving Langham pounds, he took very little trouble with his training, and entered the ring somewhat soft. Langham, on the other hand, had got into excellent condition in the hands of Ben Caunt.

Bell’s Life tells us quite frankly in its issue just before this battle that the “Blues” were to be outwitted, that the rendezvous for the combat was being kept a strict secret, but that information as to the place and time could be obtained at Ben Caunt’s or Alec Keene’s. In the event a train left Bishopsgate Street Station for an unknown destination, when, while the day was still young, a ring was formed and the men set to.

For once in a way youth was not served. As soon as he stripped it was seen that Sayers was flabby and fat about both body and face, and as time went, not only was his wind affected, but his eyes swelled much more easily than if he had been in hard condition. Langham had the advantage in height and reach, and he was a better boxer than Sayers in those days. The first round ended in a knock-down to Sayers, but the ground was slippery and Langham was none the worse. A few rounds later Langham improved, using the blow that was known as his “pickaxe,” a chopping left designed to blind his opponents by hitting them just below the eyes in such a way that they swelled and blinded them. Also he began in the fifth round to put in many straight blows over his man’s guard. Sayers grinned good-humouredly, though his face was covered with blood. In the next round he flung himself at Langham and hit him thrice on the jaw, finally sending him down hard. But how he regretted the slackness of his training! Throughout the seventh and eighth rounds Sayers followed up his advantage and gave his antagonist a terrible time. How long would he be able to last at this pace? He knew that Langham was said to be delicate, but he was thoroughly game. Had Sayers been in perfect training now he could have won, and won quickly—he was sure of it. As it was his wind was already touched, and the prolonged effort of attack gave him a sickish feeling which was worse than his opponent’s hardest blows.

Langham saw how it was with Tom Sayers, and, smiling to himself, he went for him, leading with his left again and again on the mouth and eyes. The tenth round was overwhelmingly in Langham’s favour. In the twelfth both were winded and for several rounds they took things easy. In the twenty-first Sayers in a close threw his man and fell on him, and he kept up a general improvement. He said to himself that he would win yet, Langham was getting weak. But he must hurry. His own blows seemed wretchedly poor—seemed, but were not. He was still hitting hard. A spent boxer often believes that his blows are mere taps when they are really powerful. The betting had risen in Sayers’s favour again—5-4. By the twenty-eighth round an hour had gone by, and both men, though weary, seemed to have settled down to a jog-trot method of fighting which, with what is known as a “second wind,” seems to last almost indefinitely.

Nat Langham had a beautiful straight left, only equalled by Sayers a few years later, when the little man was at his best, and he made full use of it now, plugging his man in the eye whenever he came near, and thus keeping him from getting too near. By the thirty-second round Sayers’s left eye was nearly closed, by the forty-seventh he was almost blind of the right eye too. The rounds were short and he was getting much the worst of it now. With splendid gameness he kept on leading, but Langham propped him off and countered on every occasion. At about this point in the battle, Sayers’s seconds had recourse to a desperate remedy to prevent their man from becoming totally blind, and they lanced the swellings beneath each of his eyes. This caused only temporary relief, and Sayers, of course, lost a lot of blood when Langham hit him on the wounded places again. Between the fiftieth and sixtieth rounds all hope for Sayers had gone. His eyes were so swollen that he could hardly see at all. And yet, despite his lack of training, he was now stronger than Langham, and the fight resolved itself into a race with blindness. The sixty-first round was the last. Sayers was now very groggy, and practically sightless. His hits were wasted on the air. His friends called out to have him taken away. Finally Nat Langham with a weak left and right completely closed Sayers’s eyes and knocked him down. Thereupon Alec Keene threw up the sponge from Tom’s corner. The fight, which was Langham’s last, had occupied two hours and two minutes.