As one in a dream Mr. Tridge began to disrobe and, later, to habit himself in the athletic garb Horace had procured for him.
“Now, come along!” ordered Horace, impatiently. “And for goodness’ sake, Joe, stop your knees from rattling so loud, else the referee won’t be able to ’ear ’isself speak! And do try to look ’appier!”
“I can’t!” confessed Mr. Tridge.
And now events marched through a haze to meet Mr. Tridge. He was aware of being pushed on to a platform by Mr. Lock’s shoulder, of being introduced to a crowded audience, of being fitted with enormous gloves. He heard plaudits greet his name, and would automatically have smiled his acknowledgments had he had the least control over his features. He saw the graceful, well-knit, frame of his adversary vividly super-imposed, as it were, on a cloud made up of seconds and attendants.
“Time!” declared an authoritative voice. Mr. Clark breathed on Mr. Tridge a final cheery but unteetotal wish for his good luck; Mr. Lock gave him a shove; and he found himself facing his opponent. He caught a glimpse of the Magnolia Shaving Saloon advertisement, and he subconsciously wondered whether a ceremonial black shutter had been included among the stock and fixtures.
Mr. Jevvings bore down on him, glove outstretched, for the etiquette of handshaking. As hand met hand, Mr. Jevvings winked surreptitiously at Mr. Tridge in token of remembrance of the terms of the secret treaty. A sudden alertness illumined Mr. Tridge’s mind.
And as Mr. Jevvings carelessly stepped back from the handshake, Mr. Tridge’s left arm shot out, unexpectedly and violently and accurately. With a terrific impact it landed squarely on the jaw of the unprepared Mr. Jevvings.
Mr. Jevvings momentarily had the illusion of sailing skyward. Then he landed on the floor with a resounding thud.
Mr. Tridge, palpitating almost tearfully ’twixt fear and hope, hovered near him; but he lay there inert, and they counted him out. And so Shorehaven’s most sensational boxing-bout came to an abrupt end at its very start.
Again high emotion wrapped a mist around Mr. Tridge, but now it was tinged with a roseate hue, for, lo! the fight was over and he was still alive, and, more wonderful still, uninjured. This alone he could apprehend with the forefront of his mind, but remoter regions of his brain took heed that there was cheering and drinking and speeches; there was abject worship from the stout Mr. Clark, warm commendation from Mr. Peter Lock. And, most gratifying of all, there was public presentation of the residue of the twenty pounds, correct to a penny, and also there was a collection which a dazed but approving audience supported to the extent of eleven pounds four and six.