Curley Crothers was the first to close a round.  He put an end to round one at the end of three minutes by missing with a heavy right swing, ducking to avoid terrific punishment, slipping in the yielding sand and falling.

“Back with you!” yelled Joe Byng, afraid that the pilot would take liberties and ready to jump in and stop him if need be.  But he wasted his excitement.

“Ah told you Ah’m English!” said the pilot, stepping back and letting Crothers find his corner.

Curley was glad enough of a rest on Joe Byng’s knee, and too intent on getting back his wind to listen over carefully to Joe’s advice.  When Joe called “Time” he stepped in readily again; and this time it was Hassan Ah who suffered from surprise.

Curley had been getting out of practise on board ship; he had needed waking up, and round one had done it for him.  Round two and the six that followed it were exhibitions of the “noble art” that men in any of the larger cities of the world would have paid out a fortune to have seen.

There was racial prejudice, and service pride, as well as the usual decent man’s desire to win to make a real mill of what might have been nothing out of ordinary; and there were the quite considerable odds against him that—­after the first repulse—­usually make men like Crothers do their utmost.

Even the Arabs lost their stoicism while round two was under way.  Byng yelled, and the terrier yelped, but the Arabs only shifted their position.  That, though, was proof enough of their excitement; they actually sighed in unison when Hassan Ah thrust his ungainly chin in the way of a crushing right-hand smash, and laid his broad back on the sand.

After that it was slug-and-come-again with both of them, each getting wilder as round succeeded round, but neither man obtaining much advantage.  Twice it was Crothers who went down; then he discovered a soft spot in Hassan’s ribs, and after that he kept the black man busy on the desperate defensive.

There was no doubt of the end, then, barring accidents.  Even Hassan Ah could not have doubted it; but he did his black man’s uttermost to put it off, and he fought as gamely as anybody ever fought since prize-ring rules were drafted.  He did not foul, or take undue advantage once.

It was a plain, right-handed, battering-ram punch to the neck that ended things, and Hassan Ah lay coughing on the sand with bulging eyes while Joe Byng tended Curley’s hurts.

“Hasn’t the nigger got any pals?” asked Crothers; and then it occurred to Byng that the most hurt man was surely most in need of mending.  Both he and Crothers bent over him, then, and they soon had him on his feet again.

“Ah told you Ah’m English!” were the first words he succeeded in spluttering through swollen lips.

“Now, what d’you mean by that exactly?” asked Joe Byng, his attitude toward him almost entirely changed.  A man who loses gamely is entitled to respect if not to friendship.