g and active to be caught. He was strong
upon his legs once more, and his wits had all come back to him. It was
a gallant sight--the line-of-battleship trying to pour its overwhelming
broadside into the frigate, and the frigate manoeuvring always so as to
avoid it. The Master tried all his ring-craft. He coaxed the student
up by pretended inactivity; he rushed at him with furious rushes
towards the ropes. For three rounds he exhausted every wile in trying
to get at him. Montgomery during all this time was conscious that his
strength was minute by minute coming back to him. The spinal jar from
an upper-cut is overwhelming, but evanescent. He was losing all sense
of it beyond a great stiffness of the neck. For the first round after
his downfall he had been content to be entirely on the defensive, only
too happy if he could stall off the furious attacks of the Master.
In the second he occasionally ventured upon a light counter. In the
third he was smacking back merrily where he saw an opening. His people
yelled their approval of him at the end of every round. Even the
iron-workers cheered him with that fine unselfishness which true sport
engenders. To most of them, unspiritual and unimaginative, the sight of
this clean-limbed young Apollo, rising above disaster and holding on
while consciousness was in him to his appointed task, was the greatest
thing their experience had ever known.

But the Master's naturally morose temper became more and more murderous
at this postponement of his hopes. Three rounds ago the battle had been
in his hands; now it was all to do over again. Round by round his man
was recovering his strength. By the fifteenth he was strong again in
wind and limb. But the vigilant Anastasia saw something which
encouraged her.

"That bash in t' ribs is telling on him, Jock," she whispered.
"Why else should he be gulping t' brandy? Go in, lad, and thou hast him
yet."

Montgomery had suddenly taken the flask from Barton's hand, and had a
deep pull at the contents. Then, with his face a little flushed, and
with a curious look of purpose, which made the referee stare hard at
him, in his eyes, he rose for the sixteenth round.

"Game as a pairtridge!" cried the publican, as he looked at the hard-set
face.

"Mix it oop, lad! Mix it oop!" cried the iron-men to their Master.
And then a hum of exultation ran through their ranks as they realised
that their tougher, harder, stronger man held the v