It was a magnificent blow, straight, clean, crisp, with the force of the loins and the back behind it.  And it landed where he had meant it to—­ upon the exact point of that blue-grained chin.  Flesh and blood could not stand such a blow in such a place.  Neither valour nor hardihood can save the man to whom it comes.  The Master fell backwards, flat, prostrate, striking the ground with so simultaneous a clap that it was like a shutter falling from a wall.  A yell, which no referee could control, broke from the crowded benches as the giant went down.  He lay upon his back, his knees a little drawn up, his huge chest panting.  He twitched and shook, but could not move.  His feet pawed convulsively once or twice.  It was no use.  He was done.  “Eight—­nine—­ten!” said the time-keeper, and the roar of a thousand voices, with a deafening clap like the broad-side of a ship, told that the Master of Croxley was the Master no more.

Montgomery stood half dazed, looking down at the huge, prostrate figure.  He could hardly realise that it was indeed all over.  He saw the referee motion towards him with his hand.  He heard his name bellowed in triumph from every side.  And then he was aware of someone rushing towards him; he caught a glimpse of a flushed face and an aureole of flying red hair, a gloveless fist struck him between the eyes, and he was on his back in the ring beside his antagonist, while a dozen of his supporters were endeavouring to secure the frantic Anastasia.  He heard the angry shouting of the referee, the screaming of the furious woman, and the cries of the mob.  Then something seemed to break like an over-stretched banjo string, and he sank into the deep, deep, mist-girt abyss of unconsciousness.

The dressing was like a thing in a dream, and so was a vision of the Master with the grin of a bulldog upon his face, and his three teeth amiably protruded.  He shook Montgomery heartily by the hand.

“I would have been rare pleased to shake thee by the throttle, lad, a short while syne,” said he.  “But I bear no ill-feeling again’ thee.  It was a rare poonch that brought me down—­I have not had a better since my second fight wi’ Billy Edwards in ’89.  Happen thou might think o’ goin’ further wi’ this business.  If thou dost, and want a trainer, there’s not much inside t’ ropes as I don’t know.  Or happen thou might like to try it wi’ me old style and bare knuckles.  Thou hast but to write to t’ ironworks to find me.”

But Montgomery disclaimed any such ambition.  A canvas bag with his share—­190 sovereigns—­was handed to him, of which he gave ten to the Master, who also received some share of the gate-money.  Then, with young Wilson escorting him on one side, Purvis on the other, and Fawcett carrying his bag behind, he went in triumph to his carriage, and drove amid a long roar, which lined the highway like a hedge for the seven miles, back to his starting-point.

“It’s the greatest thing I ever saw in my life.  By George, it’s ripping!” cried Wilson, who had been left in a kind of ecstasy by the events of the day.  “There’s a chap over Barnsley way who fancies himself a bit.  Let us spring you on him, and let him see what he can make of you.  We’ll put up a purse—­won’t we, Purvis?  You shall never want a backer.”