his immediate destiny was to be worked out.  On the stake at one corner there hung a blue-and-white streamer.  Barton led him across, the overcoat dangling loosely from his shoulders, and he sat down on a wooden stool.  Barton and another man, both wearing white sweaters, stood beside him.  The so-called ring was a square, twenty feet each way.  At the opposite angle was the sinister figure of the Master, with his red-headed woman and a rough-faced friend to look after him.  At each corner were metal basins, pitchers of water, and sponges.

During the hubbub and uproar of the entrance Montgomery was too bewildered to take things in.  But now there was a few minutes’ delay, for the referee had lingered behind, and so he looked quietly about him.  It was a sight to haunt him for a lifetime.  Wooden seats had been built in, sloping upwards to the tops of the walls.  Above, instead of a ceiling, a great flight of crows passed slowly across a square of grey cloud.  Right up to the topmost benches the folk were banked—­broadcloth in front, corduroys and fustian behind; faces turned everywhere upon him.  The grey reek of the pipes filled the building, and the air was pungent with the acrid smell of cheap, strong tobacco.  Everywhere among the human faces were to be seen the heads of the dogs.  They growled and yapped from the back benches.  In that dense mass of humanity, one could hardly pick out individuals, but Montgomery’s eyes caught the brazen gleam of the helmets held upon the knees of the ten yeomen of his escort.  At the very edge of the platform sat the reporters, five of them—­three locals and two all the way from London.  But where was the all-important referee?  There was no sign of him, unless he were in the centre of that angry swirl of men near the door.

Mr. Stapleton had stopped to examine the gloves which wore to be used, and entered the building after the combatants.  He had started to come down that narrow lane with the human walls which led to the ring.  But already it had gone abroad that the Wilson champion was a gentleman, and that another gentleman had been appointed as referee.  A wave of suspicion passed through the Croxley folk.  They would have one of their own people for a referee.  They would not have a stranger.  His path was stopped as he made for the ring.  Excited men flung themselves in front of him; they waved their fists in his face and cursed him.  A woman howled vile names in his ear.  Somebody struck at him with an umbrella.  “Go thou back to Lunnon.  We want noan o’ thee.  Go thou back!” they yelled.

Stapleton, with his shiny hat cocked backwards, and his large, bulging forehead swelling from under it, looked round him from beneath his bushy brows.  He was in the centre of a savage and dangerous mob.  Then he drew his watch from his pocket and held it dial upwards in his palm.

“In three minutes,” said he, “I will declare the fight off.”