But a few observant and experienced officers, gymnasium instructors, and ancient followers of the Noble Art were not so sure.

“Put steel-and-whalebone against granite and I back the former,” said Major Decoulis to Colonel Hanking; “other things being equal of course—­skill and ring-craft.  And I hear that No. 2—­the Queen’s Greys’ man—­is unusually fast for a heavy-weight.”

“I’d like to see him win,” admitted the Colonel.  “The man looks a gentleman. Doesn’t the other look a Bill Sykes, by Jove!”

The Staff Sergeant Instructor of the Motipur Gymnasium stepped into the ring.

“Silence, please,” he bawled.  “Fifteen-round contest between Corporal Dowdall, 111th Battery, Royal Garrison Artillery, Heavy-Weight Champion of Hindia, fourteen twelve (Number 1—­on my right ’and) and Trooper Matthewson, Queen’s Greys, fourteen stun (Number 2—­on my left ‘and).  Please keep silence durin’ the rounds.  The winner is Heavy-Weight Champion of Hindia, winner of the Motipur Cup and ’older of the Elliott Belt.  All ready there?”

Both combatants were ready.

“Come here, both of you,” said the referee.

As he arose to obey, Dam was irresistibly reminded of his fight with Bully Harberth and smiled.

“Nervous sort o’ grin on the figger-’ead o’ the smaller wessel, don’t it,” observed Seaman Smith.

“There wouldn’t be no grin on your fat face at all,” returned Seaman Jones.  “It wouldn’t be there.  You’d be full-steam-ahead, bearings ‘eated, and showin’ no lights, for them tents—­when you see wot you was up against.”

The referee felt Dam’s gloves to see that they contained no foreign bodies in the shape of plummets of lead or other illegal gratifications. (He had known a man fill the stuffing-compartments of his gloves with plaster of Paris, that by the third or fourth round he might be striking with a kind of stone cestus as the plaster moulded with sweat and water, and hardened to the shape of the fist.)

As he stepped back, Dam looked for the first time at his opponent, conned his bruiser face and Herculean body, and, with a gasp and shudder, was aware that a huge tattooed serpent reared its head in the centre of his vast chest while smaller ones encircled the mighty biceps of his arms.  He clutched the rope and leant trembling against the post as the referee satisfied himself (with very great care in this case) of the innocence of the Gorilla’s gloves.

“I know you of old, Dowdall,” he said, “and I shall only caution you once mind.  Second offence—­and out you go.”

Corporal Dowdall grinned sheepishly.  He appeared to think that a delicate and gentlemanly compliment had been paid to his general downiness, flyness, and ring-craft,—­the last of which, for Corporal Dowdall, included every form of foul that a weak referee would pass, an inexperienced one misunderstand, or a lazy one miss.  Major O’Halloran, first-class bruiser himself, was in the habit of doing his refereeing inside the ring and within a foot or two of the principals, where he expected foul play.