Pete’s blood was up; he set his teeth, and went at Done with hungry passion.  The young man’s style of fighting was new to most of the onlookers, and few of them appreciated it.  What they liked was to see combatants stand up to each other, giving punch for punch, a system in which the strong brute had all the advantage.  Adroitness in avoiding punishment was not regarded with favour; but, in spite of the derisive cries of Quigley’s backers, Jim kept strictly to his methods.

‘Shut up, you!’ cried Kyley.  ‘The lad’s fightin’ his own battle, an’ fightin’ it well.  He could wipe the floor with a bunch of you.’

Breathing heavily, and looking extremely ugly under his blood and bruises, Pete followed Jim round, watching for an opportunity to rush in and grip him.  He felt that it was only necessary for him to get the smaller man in his arms to settle the contest once and for all; but Jim fought him warily, sparring, ducking, and dodging, cutting Pete again and again with left-hand punches, or clipping him neatly with a swinging right when an opening offered.  Taking advantage of an instant when Done was driven against the line of men, Quigley bore in, shaking his head from a blow that might have felled a bullock, and, clasping Jim round the waist, deliberately carried him into the centre of the ring, making nothing of the short-arm punches that cut like a hammer.  Three times he tried to dash Done to the ground, but the latter was lithe as a serpent, and his limbs writhed themselves about Quigley and clung tenaciously.  The crowd was shouting the two men’s names, and exchanging cries of triumph and abuse.  Suddenly an arm shot across Pete’s breast, an elbow was driven into his throat, the two men wheeled, and the big one was sprung from his feet and sent down, with a stunning shock.  The yelling ceased suddenly, every eye was upon Quigley.

‘My God! he’s killed!’ said one awed voice.

They dragged Pete to his corner, and Jim submitted himself to the attentions of his seconds.  All the passion had gone out of his heart before the first round was finished:  there remained no emotion but the lust of conquest.  Aurora, who had watched the fight lying across the counter under the washer-woman’s restraining arm, her dark eyes shining, her face ablaze, beat the boards with her knuckles, and cried out incessantly, a prey to a fever of excitement that quivered in all her flesh.

‘Time!’ cried Ben Kyley, and the men came to the scratch for the third round, Pete badly shaken, but game and still eager.

‘Stand in an’ fight me, an’ I’ll belt the hide off you!’ he said savagely.

Jim laughed mockingly, and pushed his face forward, inviting the other to lead, and when Pete lunged at it he ducked, and got right and left on to his enemy’s ribs, slipping, away under Pete’s arm when he endeavoured to return the blows.  For a time Jim simply led the big man a dance round the ring, landing a stinging blow now and then, to add to Pete’s discomfiture; but the latter got him cornered at last, and the thud, thud, thud of the blows stirred the crowd to enthusiasm once more.  Pete got after Jim smartly when the latter broke ground, and landed his best blow, a heavy right swing on the temple that sent Done down, and left him confused for a few seconds.  Quigley’s friends shouted themselves hoarse as Mike helped his mate to the chair.