Fleetwood leaned over to Chumley Potts on the turf.  ’Abrane’s ruining himself.’

Potts frankly hoped that his friend might be doing so.  ’Todds is jolly well backed.  He’s in prime condition.  He’s the favourite of the knowing ones.’

‘You wouldn’t have the odds, if he weren’t.’

’No; but the odds are like ten per cent.:  they conjure the gale, and be hanged,’ said Potts; he swore at his betting mania, which destroyed the pleasure of the show he loved.

All in the ring were shaking hands.  Shots of a desire to question and comment sped through Carinthia’s veins and hurt her.  She had gathered that she spoke foolishly to her husband’s ear, so she kept her mouth shut, though the unanswered of her inquisitive ignorance in the strange land pricked painfully at her bosom.  She heard the girl behind her say:  ‘Our colours!’ when the colour scarlet unwound with Lord Brailstone’s blue was tied to the stake:  and her husband nodded; he smiled; he liked to hear the girl.

Potts climbed up, crying:  ’Toilets complete!  Now for paws out, and then at it, my hearties!’

Choice of corners under the leaden low cloud counted for little.  A signal was given; a man outside the ring eyed a watch, raised a hand; the two umpires were on foot in their places; the pair of opposing seconds hurried out cheery or bolt-business words to their men; and the champions advanced to the scratch.  Todds first, by the courtesy of Ines, whose decorous control of his legs at a weighty moment was rightly read by his party.

Their hands grasped firmly:  thereupon becoming fists of a hostile couple in position.  And simply to learn which of us two is the better man!  Or in other words, with four simple fists to compass a patent fact and stand it on the historic pedestal, with a little red writing underneath:  you never can patent a fact without it.  But mark the differences of this kind of contention from all other—­especially the Parliamentary:  this is positive, it has a beginning and an end; and it is good-humoured from beginning to end; trial of skill, trial of stamina; Nature and Art; Old English; which made us what we are; and no rancours, no vows of vengeance; the beaten man of the two bowing to the bit of history he has helped to make.

Kittites had need to be confident in the skill of their lither lad.  His facer looked granite.  Fronting that mass, Kit you might—­not to lash about for comparisons—­call a bundle of bamboo.  Ay, but well knitted, springy, alive every inch of him; crafty, too, as you will soon bear witness.  He knows he has got his task, and he’s the man to do it.

There was wary sparring, and mirrors watched them.

‘Bigger fellow:  but have no fear,’ the earl said over his shoulder to Madge.

She said in return:  ‘Oh, I don’t know, I’m praying.’

Kit was now on his toes, all himself, like one who has found the key.  He feinted.  Quick as lightning, he landed a bolt on Ben’s jib, just at the toll-bar of the bridge, between the eyes, and was off, out of reach, elastic; Ben’s counter fell short by a couple of inches.  Cheers for first blow.