“Get your left on his mark, boy,” they shouted, “then go to his head with the right.”

Jim heard and acted on the instant.  Plunk! came his left just where his antagonist’s ribs curved from his breast-bone.  The force of the blow was half broken by Berks’s elbow, but it served its purpose of bringing forward his head.  Spank! went the right, with the clear, crisp sound of two billiard balls clapping together, and Berks reeled, flung up his arms, spun round, and fell in a huge, fleshy heap upon the floor.  His seconds were on him instantly, and propped him up in a sitting position, his head rolling helplessly from one shoulder to the other, and finally toppling backwards with his chin pointed to the ceiling.  Dutch Sam thrust the brandy-bladder between his teeth, while Mendoza shook him savagely and howled insults in his ear, but neither the spirits nor the sense of injury could break into that serene insensibility.  “Time!” was duly called, and the Jews, seeing that the affair was over, let their man’s head fall back with a crack upon the floor, and there he lay, his huge arms and legs asprawl, whilst the Corinthians and fighting-men crowded past him to shake the hand of his conqueror.

For my part, I tried also to press through the throng, but it was no easy task for one of the smallest and weakest men in the room.  On all sides of me I heard a brisk discussion from amateurs and professionals of Jim’s performance and of his prospects.

“He’s the best bit of new stuff that I’ve seen since Jem Belcher fought his first fight with Paddington Jones at Wormwood Scrubbs four years ago last April,” said Berkeley Craven.  “You’ll see him with the belt round his waist before he’s five-and-twenty, or I am no judge of a man.”

“That handsome face of his has cost me a cool five hundred,” grumbled Sir John Lade.  “Who’d have thought he was such a punishing hitter?”

“For all that,” said another, “I am confident that if Joe Berks had been sober he would have eaten him.  Besides, the lad was in training, and the other would burst like an overdone potato if he were hit.  I never saw a man so soft, or with his wind in such condition.  Put the men in training, and it’s a horse to a hen on the bruiser.”

Some agreed with the last speaker and some were against him, so that a brisk argument was being carried on around me.  In the midst of it the Prince took his departure, which was the signal for the greater part of the company to make for the door.  In this way I was able at last to reach the corner where Jim had just finished his dressing, while Champion Harrison, with tears of joy still shining upon his cheeks, was helping him on with his overcoat.

“In four rounds!” he kept repeating in a sort of an ecstasy.  “Joe Berks in four rounds!  And it took Jem Belcher fourteen!”

“Well, Roddy,” cried Jim, holding out his hand, “I told you that I would come to London and make my name known.”