“First knock-down for Harrison!” roared a thousand voices, for ten times as many pounds would change hands upon the point.

“I appeal to the referee!” cried Sir Lothian Hume.  “It was a slip, and not a knock-down.”

“I give it a slip,” said Berkeley Craven, and the men walked to their corners, amidst a general shout of applause for a spirited and well-contested opening round.  Harrison fumbled in his mouth with his finger and thumb, and then with a sharp half-turn he wrenched out a tooth, which he threw into the basin.  “Quite like old times,” said he to Belcher.

“Have a care, Jack!” whispered the anxious second.  “You got rather more than you gave.”

“Maybe I can carry more, too,” said he serenely, whilst Caleb Baldwin mopped the big sponge over his face, and the shining bottom of the tin basin ceased suddenly to glimmer through the water.

I could gather from the comments of the experienced Corinthians around me, and from the remarks of the crowd behind, that Harrison’s chance was thought to have been lessened by this round.

“I’ve seen his old faults and I haven’t seen his old merits,” said Sir John Lade, our opponent of the Brighton Road.  “He’s as slow on his feet and with his guard as ever.  Wilson hit him as he liked.”

“Wilson may hit him three times to his once, but his one is worth Wilson’s three,” remarked my uncle.  “He’s a natural fighter and the other an excellent sparrer, but I don’t hedge a guinea.”

A sudden hush announced that the men were on their feet again, and so skilfully had the seconds done their work, that neither looked a jot the worse for what had passed.  Wilson led viciously with his left, but misjudged his distance, receiving a smashing counter on the mark in reply which sent him reeling and gasping to the ropes.  “Hurrah for the old one!” yelled the mob, and my uncle laughed and nudged Sir John Lade.  The west-countryman smiled, and shook himself like a dog from the water as with a stealthy step he came back to the centre of the ring, where his man was still standing.  Bang came Harrison’s right upon the mark once more, but Crab broke the blow with his elbow, and jumped laughing away.  Both men were a little winded, and their quick, high breathing, with the light patter of their feet as they danced round each other, blended into one continuous, long-drawn sound.  Two simultaneous exchanges with the left made a clap like a pistol-shot, and then as Harrison rushed in for a fall, Wilson slipped him, and over went my old friend upon his face, partly from the impetus of his own futile attack, and partly from a swinging half-arm blow which the west-countryman brought home upon his ear as he passed.

“Knock-down for Wilson,” cried the referee, and the answering roar was like the broadside of a seventy-four.  Up went hundreds of curly brimmed Corinthian hats into the air, and the slope before us was a bank of flushed and yelling faces.  My heart was cramped with my fears, and I winced at every blow, yet I was conscious also of an absolute fascination, with a wild thrill of fierce joy and a certain exultation in our common human nature which could rise above pain and fear in its straining after the very humblest form of fame.