“It’s a cross! It’s a cross! It’s a fake!” was the cry.
“Two minutes, Tregellis!”
“Where’s your man, Sir Charles? Where’s the man that we have backed?” Flushed faces began to crane over each other, and angry eyes glared up at us.
“One more minute, Tregellis! I am very sorry, but it will be my duty to declare it forfeit against you.”
There was a sudden swirl in the crowd, a rush, a shout, and high up in the air there spun an old black hat, floating over the heads of the ring-siders and flickering down within the ropes.
“Saved, by the Lord!” screamed Belcher.
“I rather fancy,” said my uncle, calmly, “that this must be my man.”
“Too late!” cried Sir Lothian.
“No,” answered the referee. “It was still twenty seconds to the hour. The fight will now proceed.”