Joe Berks in the meanwhile had swaggered in and stood with folded arms between his seconds in the opposite corner.  His face had none of the eager alertness of his opponent, and his skin, of a dead white, with heavy folds about the chest and ribs, showed, even to my inexperienced eyes, that he was not a man who should fight without training.  A life of toping and ease had left him flabby and gross.  On the other hand, he was famous for his mettle and for his hitting power, so that, even in the face of the advantages of youth and condition, the betting was three to one in his favour.  His heavy-jowled, clean-shaven face expressed ferocity as well as courage, and he stood with his small, blood-shot eyes fixed viciously upon Jim, and his lumpy shoulders stooping a little forwards, like a fierce hound training on a leash.

The hubbub of the betting had risen until it drowned all other sounds, men shouting their opinions from one side of the coach-house to the other, and waving their hands to attract attention, or as a sign that they had accepted a wager.  Sir John Lade, standing just in front of me, was roaring out the odds against Jim, and laying them freely with those who fancied the appearance of the unknown.

“I’ve seen Berks fight,” said he to the Honourable Berkeley Craven.  “No country hawbuck is going to knock out a man with such a record.”

“He may be a country hawbuck,” the other answered, “but I have been reckoned a judge of anything either on two legs or four, and I tell you, Sir John, that I never saw a man who looked better bred in my life.  Are you still laying against him?”

“Three to one.”

“Have you once in hundreds.”

“Very good, Craven!  There they go!  Berks!  Berks!  Bravo!  Berks!  Bravo!  I think, Craven, that I shall trouble you for that hundred.”

The two men had stood up to each other, Jim as light upon his feet as a goat, with his left well out and his right thrown across the lower part of his chest, while Berks held both arms half extended and his feet almost level, so that he might lead off with either side.  For an instant they looked each other over, and then Berks, ducking his head and rushing in with a handover-hand style of hitting, bored Jim down into his corner.  It was a backward slip rather than a knockdown, but a thin trickle of blood was seen at the corner of Jim’s mouth.  In an instant the seconds had seized their men and carried them back into their corners.

“Do you mind doubling our bet?” said Berkeley Craven, who was craning his neck to get a glimpse of Jim.

“Four to one on Berks!  Four to one on Berks!” cried the ringsiders.

“The odds have gone up, you see.  Will you have four to one in hundreds?”

“Very good, Sir John.”

“You seem to fancy him more for having been knocked down.”

“He was pushed down, but he stopped every blow, and I liked the look on his face as he got up again.”