t look
in his eyes, his jaw square and firm.

Alf Pond fussed about him like a hen over a chick.

"Shut up, Alf! I know what I'm doing," said Burns sharply.

"He knows what he's doing," repeated Alf Pond ecstatically. "Hear
that, Sandy? He knows what he's doing, and so does Jeff, I'll lay a
pony to a pink pill," he added.

Once more the gong sounded; once more Burns sprang up and darted at
his man. Jefferson tried first to dodge and then to clinch; but
without avail. He was unnerved. His strategy and tactics had been
planned in view of Burns's usual methods; but here was an entirely
different man to deal with--a great fighter.

Twice more Jefferson went down, taking a count of nine on each
occasion. He seemed to share with the spectators the knowledge that
there would be no third round.

On rising the second time he seemed determined to change his tactics.
He rushed forward, fighting gamely, apparently in the hope of
getting a lucky knock-out blow. Without giving an inch, Burns threw
off the blows and, feinting with his left, crashed his right full on
the point of his opponent's jaw.

Jefferson's hands fell, and for a second he stood gazing stupidly
before him; then his knees sagged and, with a deliberation that
seemed almost intolerable, he crashed forward on his face, one arm
outstretched as if in protest.

Again the timekeeper's voice was heard monotonously counting. Burns
turned to his corner without waiting for the conclusion of the count.
He knew the strength behind that blow.

II

Later that night, just as Big Ben was taking breath preparatory to
his supreme effort, Malcolm Sage was seated in his big arm-chair
smoking a final pipe before bed, and turning over in his mind the
happenings of the day and the probable events of the morrow.

His train of thought was suddenly interrupted by a hammering at the
outer door of his chambers, followed by the sound of loud and
hilarious voices as Rogers answered the summons.

A moment later the door of the sitting-room burst open, and there
flowed into the room Charley Burns and his entourage, all obviously
in the best of spirits. In the background stood Rogers, with
expressionless face, looking towards his master.

Malcolm Sage rose and shook hands with Burns, Mr. Doulton and Mr.
Papwith, Alf Pond and his assistants.

"Sorry, Mr. Sage," cried Burns, with a laugh; "but the boys wouldn't
wait, although I told them calling time was four till six," and