“Get your wits, Dicky,” he said.
I had got them. The bladder seemed to have burst, and let out all the hot air. I was quite cool, now, and pretty savage over this treatment.
“All right, sir,” I said; and I think he understood. He kept me simmering, however, for the regulation three minutes.
I came up to time now, Broughton’s commendable pupil. The first round had been, what we call in cricket, a trial ball. This that followed was the game—muscle and a little science against science and a little muscle. The brass pot, I am happy to say, prevailed, and sent the earthenware spinning with a crack on its stubborn little nose. Jacob mopped the vanquished, who could hardly be kept still to endure it. As for me, I was cockahoop, crowing inside and out. My second laughed, and let me go on, warning me only that the battle wasn’t won.
It was not, indeed. Our bloods were up, and the next round was a hot test of our qualities. It was give and take, and take and give; until, lunging under a loose defence, Harry hit me in the wind, and, while I was gasping and staggering, levelled me to the ground with a blow on my mouth. He was mad by now, and was rushing to pummel me, prostrate as I was, when Jacob, with a howl, clutched him and bore him struggling away.
“Law, ye little warmint!” cried the old man.
“No more of that, Harrier!” said Mr. Sant, from where he was kneeling, nursing and reviving me; “or I take my man away. To hit one that’s down, sir! That’s neither Christian nor professional.”
Then he whispered in my ear, “Three minutes, Dicky! Can you do it? else I’m bound in honour to throw up the sponge.”
There was an agitation in his voice which he tried vainly to control. I made a desperate effort, and rose as he began to count. I felt a little sick and wild; but the lesson of over-confidence had gone home. This time I played warily, tiring out my adversary. At last the moment came. He struck out furiously, missed, and, as he recovered his guard, I hit him with all my strength between the eyes. He staggered, gave a little cry, and, quite blinded for the moment, began to grope aimlessly with his fists.
“Noo, sir!” howled old Jacob, excited (I am afraid he was an unsympathetic second); “noo, sir’s your time. Walk in and finish en!”