The large assembly drew a deep breath as the combatants approached each other with extended right hands—­Dam clad in a pair of blue silk shorts, silk socks and high, thin, rubber-soled boots, the Gorilla in an exiguous bathing-garment and a pair of gymnasium shoes.

Dam a picture of the Perfect Man, was the taller, and the Gorilla, a perfect Caliban, was the broader and had the longer reach.  Their right hands touched in perfunctory shake, Dam drew back to allow the Snake to assume sparring attitude, and, as he saw the huge shoulders hunch, the great biceps rise, and the clenched gloves come to position, he assumed the American “crouch” attitude and sprang like a tiger upon the incarnation of the utter Damnation and Ruin that had cursed his life to living death.

The Gorilla was shocked and pained!  The tippy pink-and-white blasted rookie was “all over him” and he was sent staggering with such a rain of smashing blows as he had never, never felt, nor seen others receive.  The whole assembly of soldiers, saving the Garrison Artillerymen, raised a wild yell, regardless of the referee’s ferocious expostulations (in dumb-show) and even the ranks of the Horse-Gunners could scarce forbear to cheer.  The Queen’s Greys howled like fiends and Hawker, unknown to himself, punched the boards before him with terrific violence.  Never had anything like it been seen.  Matthewson was a human whirlwind, and Dowdall had not had a chance to return a blow.  More than half the tremendous punches, hooks and in-fighting jabs delivered by his opponent had got home, and he was “rattled”.  A fair hook to the chin might send him down and out at any moment.

Surely never had human being aimed such an unceasing, unending, rain of blows in the space of two minutes as had Trooper Matthewson.  His arms had worked like the piston rods of an express engine—­as fast and as untiringly.  He had taken the Gorilla by surprise, had rushed him, and had never given him a fraction of time in which to attack.  Beneath the rain of sledge-hammer blows the Gorilla had shrunk, guarding for dear life.  Driven into a corner, he cowered down, crouched beneath his raised arms, and allowed his face to sink forward.  Like a whirling piece of machinery Dam’s arm flew round to administer the coup-de-grace, the upper cut, that would lay the Snake twitching and unconscious on the boards.

The Gorilla was expecting it.

As it came, his bullet head was jerked aside, and as the first swung harmlessly up, he arose like a flash, and, as he did so, his mighty right shot up, took Darn on the chin and laid him flat and senseless in the middle of the ring.

The Gorilla breathed heavily and made the most of the respite.  He knew it must be about “Time,” and that he had not won.  If it wasn’t “Time,” and the cub arose he’d knock him to glory as he did so.  Yes, the moment the most liberal-minded critic could say he was just about on his feet, he’d give him a finisher that he’d bear the mark of.  The bloomin’ young swine had nearly “had” him—­him, the great G’rilla Dowdall, about to buy himself out with his prize-money, and take to pugilism as a profession.