Darwen was at the zenith of a strong man's powers; his head was singularly clear, and his speed almost supernatural. There was a sort of feline fascination about him, his eyes, too, were something catlike, or snakey; there was an undulating ease in his movements that was beautiful, fascinating; he had risen to the sort of hysterical height which the Latins seem capable of, and still the English blood in him kept him cool. As he stood, that day, he was almost the perfect, scientific fighter. He feinted with wonderful expression, he "drew" Carstairs' leads with extremely skilful acting, and timed his counters marvellously. At the end of the round, Carstairs was battered and bruised, but Darwen was as fresh as a daisy.
The navvies maintained a glum silence; this feinting and drawing savoured, to them, of deceit, and the way Carstairs took his punishment, melted their hearts. The ex-marine whispered in his ear: "steady does it, stick to 'im."
The young gipsy reappeared from the crowd. "My money's still on this 'un," he said.
Next round, Carstairs attacked, persistently, all the time; his wind was good and he knew it; from his earliest infancy he had led a spotlessly clean and wholesome life, and he was sound as a bell from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot; he was alert and quick too, but it was the staccato briskness of the terrier, and his eyes were the eyes of an Englishman, an engineer. With a fine disregard of punishment, he hustled Darwen through the whole of the round.
The navvies buzzed with excitement, and the young gipsy had to be turned out of the ring by the stewards.
Darwen's seconds performed their office enthusiastically, but their sympathies were really with the other man.
For four rounds Carstairs took all the punishment steadily. He bored in all the time, attacking persistently, never once had he feinted or tried to keep away. Darwen's smile began to fade, he was getting angry. This man was such a fool that apparently he could not see that he was beaten. There was a devilish gleam of temper in his eyes as they faced each other for the fifth round.
Carstairs' left foot and left fist moved in the old, old way. Instead of steadily countering as he had been doing, Darwen dashed in to hustle matters to a close. Next minute Bounce was standing over him counting out the seconds. For the first time in the fight Carstairs had feinted—and successfully.
The navvies cheered fervidly.
At the seventh second, Darwen jumped up furiously and sprang at Carstairs like a fiend incarnate. "You devil," he screamed, "I'll kill you."