“This won’t do, Tregellis,” said General Fitzpatrick.  “My money is on the old one, but the other is the finer boxer.”

“My man is un peu passe, but he will come through all right,” answered my uncle.

I saw that both Belcher and Baldwin were looking grave, and I knew that we must have a change of some sort, or the old tale of youth and age would be told once more.

The seventh round, however, showed the reserve strength of the hardy old fighter, and lengthened the faces of those layers of odds who had imagined that the fight was practically over, and that a few finishing rounds would have given the smith his coup-de-grace.  It was clear when the two men faced each other that Wilson had made himself up for mischief, and meant to force the fighting and maintain the lead which he had gained, but that grey gleam was not quenched yet in the veteran’s eyes, and still the same smile played over his grim face.  He had become more jaunty, too, in the swing of his shoulders and the poise of his head, and it brought my confidence back to see the brisk way in which he squared up to his man.

Wilson led with his left, but was short, and he only just avoided a dangerous right-hander which whistled in at his ribs.  “Bravo, old ’un, one of those will be a dose of laudanum if you get it home,” cried Belcher.  There was a pause of shuffling feet and hard breathing, broken by the thud of a tremendous body blow from Wilson, which the smith stopped with the utmost coolness.  Then again a few seconds of silent tension, when Wilson led viciously at the head, but Harrison took it on his forearm, smiling and nodding at his opponent.  “Get the pepper-box open!” yelled Mendoza, and Wilson sprang in to carry out his instructions, but was hit out again by a heavy drive on the chest.  “Now’s the time!  Follow it up!” cried Belcher, and in rushed the smith, pelting in his half-arm blows, and taking the returns without a wince, until Crab Wilson went down exhausted in the corner.  Both men had their marks to show, but Harrison had all the best of the rally, so it was our turn to throw our hats into the air and to shout ourselves hoarse, whilst the seconds clapped their man upon his broad back as they hurried him to his corner.

“What think you now?” shouted all the neighbours of the west-countryman, repeating his own refrain.

“Why, Dutch Sam never put in a better rally,” cried Sir John Lade.  “What’s the betting now, Sir Lothian?”

“I have laid all that I intend; but I don’t think my man can lose it.”  For all that, the smile had faded from his face, and I observed that he glanced continually over his shoulder into the crowd behind him.