“He’s no Johnny Raw, certainly,” said Sir John, shaking his head. “What odds are you giving on Berks, Lord Sole?”
“Two to one.”
“I take you twice in hundreds.”
“Here’s Sir John Lade hedging!” cried my uncle, smiling back at us over his shoulder.
“Time!” said Jackson, and the two men sprang forward to the mark again.
This round was a good deal shorter than that which had preceded it. Berks’s orders evidently were to close at any cost, and so make use of his extra weight and strength before the superior condition of his antagonist could have time to tell. On the other hand, Jim, after his experience in the last round, was less disposed to make any great exertion to keep him at arms’ length. He led at Berks’s head, as he came rushing in, and missed him, receiving a severe body blow in return, which left the imprint of four angry knuckles above his ribs. As they closed Jim caught his opponent’s bullet head under his arm for an instant, and put a couple of half-arm blows in; but the prize-fighter pulled him over by his weight, and the two fell panting side by side upon the ground. Jim sprang up, however, and walked over to his corner, while Berks, distressed by his evening’s dissipation, leaned one arm upon Mendoza and the other upon Dutch Sam as he made for his seat.
“Bellows to mend!” cried Jem Belcher. “Where’s the four to one now?”
“Give us time to get the lid off our pepper-box,” said Mendoza. “We mean to make a night of it.”
“Looks like it,” said Jack Harrison. “He’s shut one of his eyes already. Even money that my boy wins it!”
“How much?” asked several voices.