Darwen stripped with alacrity, his big brown eyes gleamed with abnormal joy: there was sufficient of the Gaul in him to make him "More than man before the fight. Less than woman afterwards." He was attended to by two navvies; a tall red-headed man and a slender dark man with rather a thoughtful, melancholy cast of countenance. A young gipsy youth, slouch-hatted, slovenly, wandered up to the group, and stood beside Darwen for a minute or two; his piercing eyes moved with a quick alert expression under the wide drooping brim of his hat; his face was very dirty and his hands thrust deep into his trousers' pockets. The navvies took no notice of him, and he wandered nonchalantly across the ring and took up a position near Carstairs.
"How many rounds?" he asked.
"To a finish," Bounce answered.
"I'll put a bob on this 'un, he's got the look of a winner," he growled out in a surly, gruff voice.
Carstairs glanced up at him quickly, but he turned round and sauntered off.
"Get ready."
They stepped out into the ring, two splendid specimens of English manhood. Darwen six feet in his socks, and Carstairs half an inch shorter. They were in the pink of condition, and both of them full of steam. Somewhere near at hand was the girl they both wanted, and they had this in mind. Darwen, for the first time in his life, was in love, really in love, with all the ardour of his passionate nature.
"Shake hands," Darwen's seconds called, but Carstairs took no notice, and the five hundred spectators settled themselves to witness a battle of real hatred.
"Time," Bounce called.
Promptly Darwen sprang in with a realistic feint, then, smiling, broke ground and worked round his antagonist. Carstairs watched him, keeping the centre of the ring, pivoting slowly on his own axis. Darwen sprang in again with another feint, but still Carstairs gave no opening, then quick as a flash Darwen gave a left lead and followed up with a heavy right swing; both got home, though not with their full effect.