to whom it comes. The Master fell backwards, flat,
prostrate, striking the ground with so simultaneous a clap that it was
like a shutter falling from a wall. A yell, which no referee could
control, broke from the crowded benches as the giant went down. He lay
upon his back, his knees a little drawn up, his huge chest panting.
He twitched and shook, but could not move. His feet pawed convulsively
once or twice. It was no use. He was done. "Eight--nine--ten!" said
the time-keeper, and the roar of a thousand voices, with a deafening
clap like the broad-side of a ship, told that the Master of Croxley was
the Master no more.

Montgomery stood half dazed, looking down at the huge, prostrate figure.
He could hardly realise that it was indeed all over. He saw the referee
motion towards him with his hand. He heard his name bellowed in triumph
from every side. And then he was aware of someone rushing towards him;
he caught a glimpse of a flushed face and an aureole of flying red hair,
a gloveless fist struck him between the eyes, and he was on his back in
the ring beside his antagonist, while a dozen of his supporters were
endeavouring to secure the frantic Anastasia. He heard the angry
shouting of the referee, the screaming of the furious woman, and the
cries of the mob. Then something seemed to break like an over-stretched
banjo string, and he sank into the deep, deep, mist-girt abyss of
unconsciousness.

The dressing was like a thing in a dream, and so was a vision of the
Master with the grin of a bulldog upon his face, and his three teeth
amiably protruded. He shook Montgomery heartily by the hand.

"I would have been rare pleased to shake thee by the throttle, lad, a
short while syne," said he. "But I bear no ill-feeling again' thee.
It was a rare poonch that brought me down--I have not had a better
since my second fight wi' Billy Edwards in '89. Happen thou might think
o' goin' further wi' this business. If thou dost, and want a trainer,
there's not much inside t' ropes as I don't know. Or happen thou might
like to try it wi' me old style and bare knuckles. Thou hast but to
write to t' ironworks to find me."

But Montgomery disclaimed any such ambition. A canvas bag with his
share--190 sovereigns--was handed to him, of which he gave ten to the
Master, who also received some share of the gate-money. Then, with
young Wilson escorting him on one side, Purvis on the other, and Fawcett
carrying his bag beh