“Now, who’s attending to Morrison?” said the master of ceremonies.

Two men stepped forward out of the crowd.

“Well—­get over there at that side.  Got yer towels?  And the men for Tucker?  Come on!  Come on!”

He relegated them to their positions, and the little group of men fell away, leaving the two antagonists alone in an open space.

“Now shake ’ands, gentlemen, please,” said the master. “’Urry up for Gawd’s sake—­I’m getting stiff, I am.”

They made no motion of obedience, and he looked from one to the other.  Even from their window, they could see in his face the clouds of the storm that was about to burst.

“Oh, I can understand now,” exclaimed Traill, in an undertone.  He addressed the remark to Sally, but his face scarcely turned in her direction.  “You see, these chaps have a quarrel and they’re going to fight it out under rules and regulations.  They’ve got this fellow who knows something about boxing—­at least I presume he does—­to come and manage the affair.  Probably he knows nothing of the quarrel.  He expects them to shake hands, but I’m hanged if they’re going to.  By Jove!  There’ll be a mess here if the police get to hear anything.”

“But why should they shake hands if they’re going to fight?” asked Sally, forcing spurious interest.  So she bled herself—­sapping vitality to give him pleasure.  And he took it—­as a man will—­unconscious of receiving anything.

“Why?  Oh—­it’s the rules of boxing.  The whole thing is supposed to be done in a friendly spirit.  These chaps down here would probably cut each other’s throats for a song.  What’s the good of their shaking hands?”

The combatants were still standing reluctant.  It seemed for the moment as if the whole affair were about to topple over into a state of confusion.

“Go on, Jim,” urged one man in the ring; “shake ’ands wiv ’im.  Damn ’is eyes—­’e’s a gen’leman—­ain’t ’e?  Go ’arn, shake ’ands.”

“Look ’ere,” said the master, “if there’s any of yer blasted bunkum about this, yer can damn well see to it yourselves.  I won’t touch yer bloody money.”

The words shuddered through Sally’s ears.

“Go ’arn, Jim, shake ’ands.  Can’t yer see ’e’ll drop the ‘ole bloomin’ show if yer don’t, an’ damn it, I’ve got a couple o’ bob on yer.  Shake ’ands, can’t yer!”

Jim came reluctantly forward into the centre of the ring with a knotted hand held grudgingly before them.  The other took it and dropped it as if it were filth.

“That’s right,” said the master, “now, come on.  Two minutes a round—­minute wait.  Not more ’n ten rounds.  And God save us if the coppers don’t ’ave us by then.  Come up—­up with yer flippers!  Time!” He tipped a leering wink to the crowd.

The two men edged together, their arms bent in defensive, one clenched fist held menacingly before them.  Sally tried to take her eyes away, but a morbid fascination held them.  The anticipation of that first blow dragged her as the butcher drags his sheep to the shambles.  Every glance she stole in their direction was reluctant; but all power of volition seemed to have left her.  The sight of those two half-stripped bodies, gleaming in the gas-light, had concentrated in her eyes.  At that moment they filled, obsessed her vision.