There was a large, bare room inside with square, clean patches upon the grimy walls, where pictures and almanacs had once hung.  Worn linoleum covered the floor, but there was no furniture save some benches and a deal table with an ewer and a basin upon it.  Two of the corners were curtained off.  In the middle of the room was a weighing-chair.  A hugely fat man, with a salmon tie and a blue waistcoat with birds’-eye spots, came bustling up to them.  It was Armitage, the butcher and grazier, well known for miles round as a warm man, and the most liberal patron of sport in the Riding.  “Well, well,” he grunted, in a thick, fussy, wheezy voice, “you have come, then.  Got your man?  Got your man?

“Here he is, fit and well.  Mr. Montgomery, let me present you to Mr. Armitage.”

“Glad to meet you, sir.  Happy to make your acquaintance.  I make bold to say, sir, that we of Croxley admire your courage, Mr. Montgomery, and that our only hope is a fair fight and no favour, and the best man win.  That’s our sentiments at Croxley.”

“And it is my sentiment, also,” said the assistant.

“Well, you can’t say fairer than that, Mr. Montgomery.  You’ve taken a large contrac’ in hand, but a large contrac’ may be carried through, sir, as anyone that knows my dealings could testify.  The Master is ready to weigh in!”

“So am I.”

“You must weigh in the buff.”  Montgomery looked askance at the tall, red-headed woman who was standing gazing out of the window.

“That’s all right,” said Wilson.  “Get behind the curtain and put on your fighting kit.”

He did so, and came out the picture of an athlete, in white, loose drawers, canvas shoes, and the sash of a well-known cricket club round his waist.  He was trained to a hair, his skin gleaming like silk, and every muscle rippling down his broad shoulders and along his beautiful arms as he moved them.  They bunched into ivory knobs, or slid into long, sinuous curves, as he raised or lowered his hands.

“What thinkest thou o’ that?” asked Ted Barton, his second, of the woman in the window.

She glanced contemptuously at the young athlete.  “It’s but a poor kindness thou dost him to put a thread-paper yoong gentleman like yon against a mon as is a mon.  Why, my Jock would throttle him wi’ one bond lashed behind him.”

“Happen he may—­happen not,” said Barton.  “I have but twa pund in the world, but it’s on him, every penny, and no hedgin’.  But here’s t’ Maister, and rarely fine he do look.”

The prize-fighter had come out from his curtain, a squat, formidable figure, monstrous in chest and arms, limping slightly on his distorted leg.  His skin bad none of the freshness and clearness of Montgomery’s, but was dusky and mottled, with one huge mole amid the mat of tangled black hair which thatched his mighty breast.  His weight bore no relation to his strength, for those huge shoulders and great arms, with brown,