“He’s got the roly-polies,” cried Belcher.  “You have it your own way now!”

“I’ll vight for a week yet,” gasped Wilson.

“Damme, I like his style,” cried Sir John Lade.  “No shifting, nothing shy, no hugging nor hauling.  It’s a shame to let him fight.  Take the brave fellow away!”

“Take him away!  Take him away!” echoed a hundred voices.

“I won’t be taken away!  Who dares say so?” cried Wilson, who was back, after another fall, upon his second’s knee.

“His heart won’t suffer him to cry enough,” said General Fitzpatrick.  “As his patron, Sir Lothian, you should direct the sponge to be thrown up.”

“You think he can’t win it?”

“He is hopelessly beat, sir.”

“You don’t know him.  He’s a glutton of the first water.”

“A gamer man never pulled his shirt off; but the other is too strong for him.”

“Well, sir, I believe that he can fight another ten rounds.”  He half turned as he spoke, and I saw him throw up his left arm with a singular gesture into the air.

“Cut the ropes!  Fair play!  Wait till the rain stops!” roared a stentorian voice behind me, and I saw that it came from the big man with the bottle-green coat.  His cry was a signal, for, like a thunderclap, there came a hundred hoarse voices shouting together:  “Fair play for Gloucester!  Break the ring!  Break the ring!”

Jackson had called “Time,” and the two mud-plastered men were already upon their feet, but the interest had suddenly changed from the fight to the audience.  A succession of heaves from the back of the crowd had sent a series of long ripples running through it, all the heads swaying rhythmically in the one direction like a wheatfield in a squall.  With every impulsion the oscillation increased, those in front trying vainly to steady themselves against the rushes from behind, until suddenly there came a sharp snap, two white stakes with earth clinging to their points flew into the outer ring, and a spray of people, dashed from the solid wave behind, were thrown against the line of the beaters-out.  Down came the long horse-whips, swayed by the most vigorous arms in England; but the wincing and shouting victims had no sooner scrambled back a few yards from the merciless cuts, before a fresh charge from the rear hurled them once more into the arms of the prize-fighters.  Many threw themselves down upon the turf and allowed successive waves to pass over their bodies, whilst others, driven wild by the blows, returned them with their hunting-crops and walking-canes.  And then, as half the crowd strained to the left and half to the right to avoid the pressure from behind, the vast mass was suddenly reft in twain, and through the gap surged the rough fellows from behind, all armed with loaded sticks and yelling for “Fair play and Gloucester!” Their determined rush carried the prize-fighters before them, the inner ropes snapped like threads, and in an instant the ring was a swirling,’