elled.

Stapleton, with his shiny hat cocked backwards, and his large, bulging
forehead swelling from under it, looked round him from beneath his bushy
brows. He was in the centre of a savage and dangerous mob. Then he
drew his watch from his pocket and held it dial upwards in his palm.

"In three minutes," said he, "I will declare the fight off."

They raged round him. His cool face and that aggressive top-hat
irritated them. Grimy hands were raised. But it was difficult,
somehow, to strike a man who was so absolutely indifferent.

"In two minutes I declare the fight off."

They exploded into blasphemy. The breath of angry men smoked into his
placid face. A gnarled, grimy fist vibrated at the end of his nose.
"We tell thee we want noan o' thee. Get thou back where thou com'st
from."

"In one minute I declare the fight off."

Then the calm persistence of the man conquered the swaying, mutable,
passionate crowd.

"Let him through, mon. Happen there'll be no fight after a'."

"Let him through."

"Bill, thou loomp, let him pass. Dost want the fight declared off?"

"Make room for the referee!--room for the Lunnon referee!"

And half pushed, half carried, he was swept up to the ring. There were
two chairs by the side of it, one for him and one for the timekeeper.
He sat down, his hands on his knees, his hat at a more wonderful angle
than ever, impassive but solemn, with the aspect of one who appreciates
his responsibilities.

Mr. Armitage, the portly butcher, made his way into the ring and held up
two fat hands, sparkling with rings, as a signal for silence.

"Gentlemen!" he yelled. And then in a crescendo shriek, "Gentlemen!"

"And ladies!" cried somebody, for, indeed, there was a fair sprinkling
of women among the crowd. "Speak up, owd man!" shouted another. "What
price pork chops?" cried somebody at the back. Everybody laughed, and
the dogs began to bark. Armitage waved his hands amidst the uproar as
if he were conducting an orchestra. At last the babel thinned into
silence.

"Gentlemen," he yelled, "the match is between Silas Craggs, whom we
call the Master of Croxley, and Robert Montgomery, of the Wilson
Coal-pits. The match was to be under eleven-eight. When they were
weighed just now, Craggs weighed eleven-seven, and Montgomery ten-nine.
The conditions of the contest are--the best of twenty three-minute
rounds with two-ounce gloves. Should the fight run to its full length,
it wi