“Go in!  Go in!” cried Teddy Barton.

Montgomery sprang wildly forward, and the next instant was lying half senseless, with his neck nearly broken, in the middle of the ring.

The whole round had been a long conspiracy to tempt him within reach of one of those terrible right-hand upper-cuts for which the Master was famous.  For this the listless, weary bearing, for this the cramp in the thigh.  When Montgomery had sprung in so hotly he had exposed himself to such a blow as neither flesh nor blood could stand.  Whizzing up from below with a rigid arm, which put the Master’s eleven stone into its force, it struck him under the jaw; he whirled half round, and fell a helpless and half-paralysed mass.  A vague groan and murmur, inarticulate, too excited for words, rose from the great audience.  With open mouths and staring eyes they gazed at the twitching and quivering figure.

“Stand back!  Stand right back!” shrieked the referee, for the Master was standing over his man ready to give him the coup-de-grace as he rose.

“Stand back, Craggs, this instant!” Stapleton repeated.

The Master sank his hands sulkily and walked backwards to the rope with his ferocious eyes fixed upon his fallen antagonist.  The timekeeper called the seconds.  If ten of them passed before Montgomery rose to his feet, the fight was ended.  Ted Barton wrung his hands and danced about in an agony in his corner.

As if in a dream—­a terrible nightmare—­the student could hear the voice of the timekeeper—­three—­four—­five—­he got up on his hand—­six—­ seven—­he was on his knee, sick, swimming, faint, but resolute to rise.  Eight—­he was up, and the Master was on him like a tiger, lashing savagely at him with both hands.  Folk held their breath as they watched those terrible blows, and anticipated the pitiful end—­so much more pitiful where a game but helpless man refuses to accept defeat.

Strangely automatic is the human brain.  Without volition, without effort, there shot into the memory of this bewildered, staggering, half-stupefied man the one thing which could have saved him—­that blind eye of which the Master’s son had spoken.  It was the same as the other to look at, but Montgomery remembered that he had said that it was the left.  He reeled to the left side, half felled by a drive which lit upon his shoulder.  The Master pivoted round upon his leg and was at him in an instant.

“Yark him, lad!  Yark him!” screamed the woman.

“Hold your tongue!” said the referee.

Montgomery slipped to the left again and yet again, but the Master was too quick and clever for him.  He struck round and got him full on the face as he tried once more to break away.  Montgomery’s knees weakened under him, and he fell with a groan on the floor.  This time he knew that he was done.  With bitter agony he realised, as he groped blindly with his hands, that he could not possibly raise himself.  Far away and muffled he heard, amid the murmurs of the multitude, the fateful voice of the timekeeper counting off the seconds.