"Ay; but t'other's a likely lad. Happen we'll see some sport yet. He can joomp rarely."
"But t' Maister can stop and hit rarely. Happen he'll mak' him joomp when he gets his nief upon him."
They were up again, the water glistening upon their faces. Montgomery led instantly and got his right home with a sounding smack upon the Master's forehead. There was a shout from the colliers, and "Silence! Order!" from the referee. Montgomery avoided the counter and scored with his left. Fresh applause, and the referee upon his feet in indignation. "No comments, gentlemen, if you please, during the rounds."
"Just bide a bit!" growled the Master.
"Don't talk—fight!" said the referee, angrily.
Montgomery rubbed in the point by a flush hit upon the mouth, and the Master shambled back to his corner like an angry bear, having had all the worst of the round.
"Where's thot seven to one?" shouted Purvis, the publican. "I'll take six to one!"
There were no answers.
"Five to one!" There were givers at that. Purvis booked them in a tattered notebook.
Montgomery began to feel happy. He lay back with his legs outstretched, his back against the corner-post, and one gloved hand upon each rope. What a delicious minute it was between each round. If he could only keep out of harm's way, he must surely wear this man out before the end of twenty rounds. He was so slow that all his strength went for nothing. "You're fightin' a winnin' fight—a winnin' fight," Ted Barton whispered in his ear. "Go canny; tak' no chances; you have him proper."