seething mass of figures, whips and sticks falling and clattering, whilst, face to face, in the middle of it all, so wedged that they could neither advance nor retreat, the smith and the west-countryman continued their long-drawn battle as oblivious of the chaos raging round them as two bulldogs would have been who had got each other by the throat.  The driving rain, the cursing and screams of pain, the swish of the blows, the yelling of orders and advice, the heavy smell of the damp cloth—­every incident of that scene of my early youth comes back to me now in my old age as clearly as if it had been but yesterday.

It was not easy for us to observe anything at the time, however, for we were ourselves in the midst of the frantic crowd, swaying about and carried occasionally quite off our feet, but endeavouring to keep our places behind Jackson and Berkeley Craven, who, with sticks and whips meeting over their heads, were still calling the rounds and superintending the fight.

“The ring’s broken!” shouted Sir Lothian Hume.  “I appeal to the referee!  The fight is null and void.”

“You villain!” cried my uncle, hotly; “this is your doing.”

“You have already an account to answer for with me,” said Hume, with his sinister sneer, and as he spoke he was swept by the rush of the crowd into my uncle’s very arms.  The two men’s faces were not more than a few inches apart, and Sir Lothian’s bold eyes had to sink before the imperious scorn which gleamed coldly in those of my uncle.

“We will settle our accounts, never fear, though I degrade myself in meeting such a blackleg.  What is it, Craven?”

“We shall have to declare a draw, Tregellis.”

“My man has the fight in hand.”

“I cannot help it.  I cannot attend to my duties when every moment I am cut over with a whip or a stick.”

Jackson suddenly made a wild dash into the crowd, but returned with empty hands and a rueful face.

“They’ve stolen my timekeeper’s watch,” he cried.  “A little cove snatched it out of my hand.”

My uncle clapped his hand to his fob.

“Mine has gone also!” he cried.

“Draw it at once, or your man will get hurt,” said Jackson, and we saw that as the undaunted smith stood up to Wilson for another round, a dozen rough fellows were clustering round him with bludgeons.

“Do you consent to a draw, Sir Lothian Hume?”

“I do.”

“And you, Sir Charles?”

“Certainly not.”

“The ring is gone.”

“That is no fault of mine.”

“Well, I see no help for it.  As referee I order that the men be withdrawn, and that the stakes be returned to their owners.”

“A draw!  A draw!” shrieked every one, and the crowd in an instant dispersed in every direction, the pedestrians running to get a good lead upon the London road, and the Corinthians in search of their horses and carriages.  Harrison ran over to Wilson’s corner and shook him by the hand.