But the Master’s naturally morose temper became more and more murderous at this postponement of his hopes.  Three rounds ago the battle had been in his hands; now it was all to do over again.  Round by round his man was recovering his strength.  By the fifteenth he was strong again in wind and limb.  But the vigilant Anastasia saw something which encouraged her.

“That bash in t’ ribs is telling on him, Jock,” she whispered.  “Why else should he be gulping t’ brandy?  Go in, lad, and thou hast him yet.”

Montgomery had suddenly taken the flask from Barton’s hand, and had a deep pull at the contents.  Then, with his face a little flushed, and with a curious look of purpose, which made the referee stare hard at him, in his eyes, he rose for the sixteenth round.

“Game as a pairtridge!” cried the publican, as he looked at the hard-set face.

“Mix it oop, lad!  Mix it oop!” cried the iron-men to their Master.  And then a hum of exultation ran through their ranks as they realised that their tougher, harder, stronger man held the vantage, after all.  Neither of the men showed much sign of punishment.  Small gloves crush and numb, but they do not cut.  One of the Master’s eyes was even more flush with his cheek than Nature had made it.  Montgomery had two or three livid marks upon his body, and his face was haggard, save for that pink spot which the brandy had brought into either cheek.  He rocked a little as he stood opposite his man, and his hands drooped as if he felt the gloves to be an unutterable weight.  It was evident that he was spent and desperately weary.  If he received one other blow it must surely be fatal to him.  If he brought one home, what power could there be behind it, and what chance was there of its harming the colossus in front of him?  It was the crisis of the fight.  This round must decide it.  “Mix it oop, lad!  Mix it oop!” the iron-men whooped.  Even the savage eyes of the referee were unable to restrain the excited crowd.

Now, at last, the chance had come for Montgomery.  He had learned a lesson from his more experienced rival.  Why should he not play his own game upon him?  He was spent, but not nearly so spent as he pretended.  That brandy was to call up his reserves, to let him have strength to take full advantage of the opening when it came.  It was thrilling and tingling through his veins at the very moment when he was lurching and rocking like a beaten man.  He acted his part admirably.  The Master felt that there was an easy task before him, and rushed in with ungainly activity to finish it once for all.  He slap-banged away left and right, boring Montgomery up against the ropes, swinging in his ferocious blows with those animal grunts which told of the vicious energy behind them.

But Montgomery was too cool to fall a victim to any of those murderous upper-cuts.  He kept out of harm’s way with a rigid guard, an active foot, and a head which was swift to duck.  And yet he contrived to present the same appearance of a man who is hopelessly done.  The Master, weary from his own shower of blows, and fearing nothing from so weak a man, dropped his hand for an instant, and at that instant Montgomery’s right came home.