For three rounds the honours were fairly equal.  The student’s hitting was the quicker, the Master’s the harder.  Profiting by his lesson, Montgomery kept himself in the open, and refused to be herded into a corner.  Sometimes the Master succeeded in rushing him to the side-ropes, but the younger man slipped away, or closed and then disengaged.  The monotonous “Break away!  Break away!” of the referee broke in upon the quick, low patter of rubber-soled shoes, the dull thud of the blows, and the sharp, hissing breath of two tired men.

The ninth round found both of them in fairly good condition.  Montgomery’s head was still singing from the blow that he had in the corner, and one of his thumbs pained him acutely and seemed to be dislocated.  The Master showed no sign of a touch, but his breathing was the more laboured, and a long line of ticks upon the referee’s paper showed that the student had a good show of points.  But one of this iron-man’s blows was worth three of his, and he knew that without the gloves he could not have stood for three rounds against him.  All the amateur work that he had done was the merest tapping and flapping when compared to those frightful blows, from arms toughened by the shovel and the crowbar.

It was the tenth round, and the fight was half over.  The betting now was only three to one, for the Wilson champion had held his own much better than had been expected.  But those who knew the ring-craft as well as the staying power of the old prize-fighter knew that the odds were still a long way in his favour.

“Have a care of him!” whispered Barton, as he sent his man up to the scratch.  “Have a care!  He’ll play thee a trick, if he can.”

But Montgomery saw, or imagined he saw, that his antagonist was tiring.  He looked jaded and listless, and his hands drooped a little from their position.  His own youth and condition were beginning to tell.  He sprang in and brought off a fine left-handed lead.  The Master’s return lacked his usual fire.  Again Montgomery led, and again he got home.  Then he tried his right upon the mark, and the Master guarded it downwards.

“Too low!  Too low!  A foul!  A foul!” yelled a thousand voices.

The referee rolled his sardonic eyes slowly round.  “Seems to me this buildin’ is chock-full of referees,” said he.  The people laughed and applauded, but their favour was as immaterial to him as their anger.  “No applause, please!  This is not a theatre!” he yelled.

Montgomery was very pleased with himself.  His adversary was evidently in a bad way.  He was piling on his points and establishing a lead.  He might as well make hay while the sun shone.  The Master was looking all abroad.  Montgomery popped one upon his blue jowl and got away without a return.  And then the Master suddenly dropped both his hands and began rubbing his thigh.  Ah! that was it, was it?  He had muscular cramp.