"I cannot wager so large an amount," replied Dan, gravely. "I am a poor man."
Tim glanced at the caravan, and laughed hoarsely. He had his own opinion on the matter, or else had taken his cue from Mother Jericho. However, he was too bent on fighting to argue, and his face grew impatient as he poised himself lightly in an attitude of defence with scientifically placed fists.
"Ain't you goin' to put 'em up?" said he, sharply.
"Not without the gloves, friend. I've no notion of letting those sledge-hammer fists of yours spoil my beauty."
"Ho! Women like to see men mashed a bit. Them's the kind they love best."
"That may be! Women are all hero-worshippers. All the same, I wish my face to remain as it is. A broken nose may be heroic, but it isn't pleasing to the eye."
And with such speech he disappeared into the caravan, whence he emerged with the boxing-gloves. Throwing a pair of these to Tim, he put on his own, and in a minute or so the two men were warily circling round one another. Peter was the only spectator of this famous fight, and he encouraged the combatants with sharp barks when the blows fell unusually thick.
"Here is Lavengro again," thought Dan, aiming a blow at the jaw of his opponent. "I have dropped across the Flaming Tinman."
And Lavengro alone could have fully described that Homeric contest. There was no hesitancy or half-heartedness about it. They pounded one another whenever they got the chance, and sent the blows straight from the shoulder. Thrice was Dan toppled over like a ninepin, and twice did Tim measure his length on the grassy sward. If one had the greater weight, the other had the quicker eye. Tim's leg-of-mutton fists did terrific damage when they got home on Dan's body, but for the most part they descended innocuously, so dexterously did the latter guard. At first they smiled, but soon their blood warmed and their faces set. Strength and agility were fairly matched, so that though the battle raged for close on an hour, each managed to hold his own. Dan could make no impression on the elephantine frame of Tim, and the tinker grew weary of trying to hit a flash of lightning in the person of the vagrant. It was as pretty a sight as a man might see in a day's walk, but so equal were both boxers that the contest seemed likely to last till sunset. The account of such a combat should roll off the tongue in blank verse or leaping hexameter, and be chanted by some noble minstrel. Nothing meaner can suffice! It is impossible to play an oratorio on a penny whistle.
At length, when Dan had a bleeding nose and Tim a swelling eye, they threw down their gloves by mutual consent and declared it a drawn battle. On such result they shook hands like the manly pair they were, and Tim vented his emotion in a mighty oath which here need only be paraphrased.