Round 1.—On peeling, the ould one looked like a new man. The renovating air of the Welsh mountains appeared to have had the desired effect upon the frame of Turner. He looked steadily at his opponent, and made himself up to do mischief, but Inglis avoided close quarters. After some little dodging, an exchange of blows, but nothing the matter. Inglis got out of the corner well, but, in the middle of the ring, he napped a hit, which gave him the staggers. “Beautiful!” exclaimed the boys from Bermondsey. Turner, on going in, received a heavy right-handed blow between the ogles that made him wink again, filling his eyes with water, but no tears! This blow rather alarmed his backers, and the face of Jack Randall betrayed a serious aspect for the safety of his friend. Turner missed an upper-cut blow, which, in all probability, might have shortened the battle. Inglis was very quick upon his legs, but, although he made several motions to do summut, the position of Turner was so difficult that he could not get at him. Turner at length planted a nobber, and Inglis fell on one knee. (Huzzas, roars, and clapping of hands, expressive of the joy felt by the Bermondseyites at the success of Turner.)
2.—Turner was determined not to give another chance away; and the hint, “He’s coming with his right hand,” roared out by the eloquent Holt, kept Turner awake. Inglis bobbed his head once or twice; and it was lucky he did so, as a chancery slice was in readiness for him. Some heavy blows were exchanged, with this difference, Turner stopped them, while Inglis received. The latter got a severe nose-ender, which not only uncorked the claret, but left a stupefying quality behind it. “Bravo, Turner; the ould one is a little bit stronger than he was last time.” In a scuffle, two little drops of blood appeared on Turner’s cheek. In closing, both down.
3.—This was a short round. Ned was the hero of the tale at this early part of the fight; but “hopes and fears” were expressed as to his strength. “If he can but last,” said a knowing one, “it is as safe as the Bank.” The stops of Turner were truly excellent; but Inglis bored him to the ropes, and fell on him.
4.—Inglis got away from several rum ones; but he never took the lead to do any mischief. Turner planted in succession two heavy hits—stupefiers; Inglis never flinched. Turner got Inglis down, amidst most uproarious thunders of applause.
5.—This round added considerably to the odds in favour of Turner. After two or three movements of no effect, the ould one caught Inglis with a cutting-up, or rather a cutting-down, blow, and Inglis was floored. An artillery salute, and seven to four offered freely.
6.—Inglis again napped a staggering blow, and twirled round in a confused state; nevertheless, he recovered himself, and fought like a good one, till both went down, Inglis undermost.
7.—The goodness of Inglis was never doubted, but there was nothing like winning about his exertions, provided Turner’s strength did not leave him. Inglis napped it on the mouth, succeeded by two severe facers. This was a long round. Inglis planted a slight body blow, but he received three blows for one, till Ned slipped accidentally down.
8.—The young one was piping a little, and the ould one was none the worse for a pause. Sparring for wind. In a struggle both went down, but the feather-bed maker was undermost.
9.—This round booked it almost to a certainty for Bermondsey. Two facers once more put Inglis’s nob into chancery. The young one, however, as good as gold, not only stopped, but countered well. The nose of Inglis, however, was at the service of Ned, and the claret followed as pure as any sample from the bins of Charley Wright, of the Haymarket. The eyes of Inglis lost their fire, and his countenance bore the marks of his mind being abroad. The latter hit anyhow, till he was floored by a nobber. (Cheers, noise, and applause. Two and three to one offered on Turner.)
10.—The chancery suit had performed the task for Ned, and Inglis was done almost brown. He, however, endeavoured to rally, but another cutting-up hit, added to his, already shakey state, produced extreme grogginess. His game was so good that he stood up like bricks, till a hit, almost severe enough to have knocked a stone out of a wall, again floored the brave but unfortunate feather-bed maker. (“Take him away, he has no chance!”)