This round was a good deal shorter than that which had preceded it.  Berks’s orders evidently were to close at any cost, and so make use of his extra weight and strength before the superior condition of his antagonist could have time to tell.  On the other hand, Jim, after his experience in the last round, was less disposed to make any great exertion to keep him at arms’ length.  He led at Berks’s head, as he came rushing in, and missed him, receiving a severe body blow in return, which left the imprint of four angry knuckles above his ribs.  As they closed Jim caught his opponent’s bullet head under his arm for an instant, and put a couple of half-arm blows in; but the prize-fighter pulled him over by his weight, and the two fell panting side by side upon the ground.  Jim sprang up, however, and walked over to his corner, while Berks, distressed by his evening’s dissipation, leaned one arm upon Mendoza and the other upon Dutch Sam as he made for his seat.

“Bellows to mend!” cried Jem Belcher.  “Where’s the four to one now?”

“Give us time to get the lid off our pepper-box,” said Mendoza.  “We mean to make a night of it.”

“Looks like it,” said Jack Harrison.  “He’s shut one of his eyes already.  Even money that my boy wins it!”

“How much?” asked several voices.

“Two pound four and threepence,” cried Harrison, counting out all his worldly wealth.

“Time!” said Jackson once more.

They were both at the mark in an instant, Jim as full of sprightly confidence as ever, and Berks with a fixed grin upon his bull-dog face and a most vicious gleam in the only eye which was of use to him.  His half-minute had not enabled him to recover his breath, and his huge, hairy chest was rising and falling with a quick, loud panting like a spent hound.  “Go in, boy!  Bustle him!” roared Harrison and Belcher.  “Get your wind, Joe; get your wind!” cried the Jews.  So now we had a reversal of tactics, for it was Jim who went in to hit with all the vigour of his young strength and unimpaired energy, while it was the savage Berks who was paying his debt to Nature for the many injuries which he had done her.  He gasped, he gurgled, his face grew purple in his attempts to get his breath, while with his long left arm extended and his right thrown across, he tried to screen himself from the attack of his wiry antagonist.  “Drop when he hits!” cried Mendoza.  “Drop and have a rest!”

But there was no shyness or shiftiness about Berks’s fighting.  He was always a gallant ruffian, who disdained to go down before an antagonist as long as his legs would sustain him.  He propped Jim off with his long arm, and though the lad sprang lightly round him looking for an opening, he was held off as if a forty-inch bar of iron were between them.  Every instant now was in favour of Berks, and already his breathing was easier and the bluish tinge fading from his face.  Jim knew that his chance of a speedy victory was slipping away from him, and he came back again and again as swift as a flash to the attack without being able to get past the passive defence of the trained fighting-man.  It was at such a moment that ringcraft was needed, and luckily for Jim two masters of it were at his back.