“But I’m so giddy, I—I can’t stand,” said Saurin.
“Time!” was called, and Crawley sprang off his second’s knee as strong as possible, but he stood in the middle of the ring alone.
“It’s no good; he can’t stand,” cried Edwards. And then a tremendous cheering broke out, and everybody pressed forward to congratulate Crawley and pat him on the back. But he made his way over to Saurin, and offered to shake hands.
“It all luck,” he said. “You are better at this game than I am, and you would have licked me if you had not hurt your left hand. And look here, I had no right to speak as I did. And—and if you thought I wanted to get you out of the eleven you were mistaken.”
Saurin was too dazed to feel spiteful just then; he had a vague idea that Crawley wanted to shake hands, and that it would be “bad form” to hold back, so he put his right hand out and murmured something indistinctly.
“Stand back, you fellows,” said Crawley, “he is fainting. Give him a chance of a breath of air.”
And indeed Saurin had to be carried up out of the dell, laid on his back under the trees, and have water dashed in his face, before he could put on his jacket and waistcoat and walk back to his tutor’s house. And when he arrived there he was in such pain in the side that he had to go to bed. Crawley himself was a sorry sight for a victor. But his discomforts were purely local, and he did not feel ill at all; on the contrary, he was remarkably hungry. Buller was with him when he washed and changed his shirt, for he had been applying a cold key to the back of his neck to stop the nose-bleeding, and now remained, like a conscientious second, lest it should break out again.
“I say, Buller,” said Crawley suddenly, “you never go to Slam’s, I hope?”
“Not I.”
“Then how do you know such a lot about prize-fighting?”