They raged round him.  His cool face and that aggressive top-hat irritated them.  Grimy hands were raised.  But it was difficult, somehow, to strike a man who was so absolutely indifferent.

“In two minutes I declare the fight off.”

They exploded into blasphemy.  The breath of angry men smoked into his placid face.  A gnarled, grimy fist vibrated at the end of his nose.  “We tell thee we want noan o’ thee.  Get thou back where thou com’st from.”

“In one minute I declare the fight off.”

Then the calm persistence of the man conquered the swaying, mutable, passionate crowd.

“Let him through, mon.  Happen there’ll be no fight after a’.”

“Let him through.”

“Bill, thou loomp, let him pass.  Dost want the fight declared off?”

“Make room for the referee!—­room for the Lunnon referee!”

And half pushed, half carried, he was swept up to the ring.  There were two chairs by the side of it, one for him and one for the timekeeper.  He sat down, his hands on his knees, his hat at a more wonderful angle than ever, impassive but solemn, with the aspect of one who appreciates his responsibilities.

Mr. Armitage, the portly butcher, made his way into the ring and held up two fat hands, sparkling with rings, as a signal for silence.

“Gentlemen!” he yelled.  And then in a crescendo shriek, “Gentlemen!”

“And ladies!” cried somebody, for, indeed, there was a fair sprinkling of women among the crowd.  “Speak up, owd man!” shouted another.  “What price pork chops?” cried somebody at the back.  Everybody laughed, and the dogs began to bark.  Armitage waved his hands amidst the uproar as if he were conducting an orchestra.  At last the babel thinned into silence.

“Gentlemen,” he yelled, “the match is between Silas Craggs, whom we call the Master of Croxley, and Robert Montgomery, of the Wilson Coal-pits.  The match was to be under eleven-eight.  When they were weighed just now, Craggs weighed eleven-seven, and Montgomery ten-nine.  The conditions of the contest are—­the best of twenty three-minute rounds with two-ounce gloves.  Should the fight run to its full length, it will, of course, be decided upon points.  Mr. Stapleton, the well-known London referee, has kindly consented to see fair play.  I wish to say that Mr. Wilson and I, the chief backers of the two men, have every confidence in Mr. Stapleton, and that we beg that you will accept his rulings without dispute.”

He then turned from one combatant to the other, with a wave of his hand.

III

“Montgomery—­Craggs!” said he.

A great hush fell over the huge assembly.  Even the dogs stopped yapping; one might have thought that the monstrous room was empty.  The two men had stood up, the small white gloves over their hands They advanced from their corners and shook hands, Montgomery gravely, Craggs with a smile.  Then they fell into position.  The crowd gave a long sigh—­the intake of a thousand excited breaths.  The referee tilted his chair on to its back legs, and looked moodily critical from the one to the other.