Both men stripped to the waist, and the contrast was as great as the resemblance. Broad, equally broad, and superbly muscled, the saloon-keeper was, if anything, heavier, but there was just a suspicion of bloat over all his frame. Jim was clean built, statuesque—a Jason rather than a Hermes. He was by six inches taller, but the other had just as long a reach. And, as the officious patrons of the "pub" strapped on the gloves and made the usual preparation of wet sponge and towel, it seemed in all respects an even match—in all respects but one; Jim was twenty-odd, Mike was forty-odd.
The small man with a squeaky voice installed himself as timekeeper. He struck the gong, and the boxers met. Jim always smiled and bared his teeth while boxing. Mike was one of the bull-dog jaw; he kept his lips tight shut, and his small eyes twinkled with every appearance of rage.
On the first round, the great experience of the pugilist enabled him to land one or two heavy jolts, and when the gong sounded the time-limit, Jim had got rather the worst of it.
The second round opened much like the first. Jim landed on Mike's under jaw more than once; and Mike got in a body blow that was something to think about.
It was the third round that told the tale. What chance in a fight has forty-five against twenty-five? The extra weight of the prize fighter was mere softness. His wind was gone; and half the time had not passed before Jim landed under his left jaw the classic punch that Mike had one time given him, and Mike went down like a sack of meal.
In five minutes, he was up and game, but the bout was over. The men shook hands, and Michael, rapidly recovering his spirits, rumbled out of his deep chest: "Bejabers, it's the first time in five years I've been knocked out—and it was done scientific. Say, Hartigan, ye can put me down for a member of your club; or yer church or whatever the dom thing is an' I'll see ye get whatever ye need in the way of protection; an' if ye want to sell any liquor on the sly, that'll be all right. You count on Mike."
Then, with a singular clearing of hate and an access of good feeling—psychological reactions which so often follow in the wake of a finish fight—the men all shook hands and parted in excellent humour.
"By George!" said President Hopkins of the Board of Deacons, "I wouldn't have missed that for a thousand dollars. It was perfectly bully—just what we wanted! I've heard of things like this, but never really believed they happened. It's a new side of human nature for me. I wouldn't have missed it for—no, not for five thousand dollars."