Birket looks up at the clock and groans to see five minutes gone. Gosse, too, groans as his man steps forward once more, unsteady and amazed at what had befallen him. “Hit low!” he whispers.
And now, once more, dead silence falls upon the ring, and all eyes turn to where Dick steps lightly up and meets his man. All mark the laugh in his eye, but the knowing ones like it not.
“Steady,” says Birket; “don’t be too sure.”
But Basil the son of Richard heeds him not, and his eyes laugh still. This time, not Culver, but he is the pursuer, and the unknowing ones quake for their hero. Yet Culver stands as he stood before and deals his blow. Once more the new boy parries and drives home with his left. But, alas! Culver is ready for him, while he, unprepared, with his right still up, receives the fist of Culver on his chest. And the echo falls upon the ring like distant thunder.
Where, now, is the laughter in Basil’s eyes, or who can see the sunlight on Heathcote’s troubled face? Who now nod their heads but the unknowing ones? and who looks grave but Birket?
As when a mountain torrent rushes down its bed with huge uproar until it meet a fiercer, leaping headlong from the cliff, and drowning the lesser din with a greater, so do the shouts for Basil the son of Richard, grow faint beneath the shouts that rise for Culver, the large of bone. Nor when “time” is called, and from the trembling knees of their seconds those two arise and stalk into the ring, does the clamour cease, till Birket, with his eye on the clock, breathes threatenings and demands it.
Then you may hear a pin fall, as Basil, stern of eye and tight of lip, stands fast and waits his man. The knowing ones look anxiously to where the solid Culver squares, and take cheer; for he is flushed and eager, and his lips are open as he walks into the fray. And Heathcote calls loud upon his hero, and Birket bids him straight “go in and win.” Gosse yet again bids the solid one “hit low!” and the unknowing ones cry “two to one on Culver.”
The heroes meet, and Culver, gathering up his might, makes feint at Basil’s head. Up goes the wary arm of Basil, which marking, Culver smites hard and low, a villain thrust hard on the hero’s belt. Whereat Gosse cries aloud “bravo!” but Heathcote rages and shouts “belt!” and would himself spring into the fray, but Birket holds him back.
For Basil’s eyes flash fire, and on the distant staircase stands already Cresswell, ready to stop the fight. “A minute more,” cries Birket, and the ring is still as when Etna, ready to burst, sleeps.
Then does Basil the son of Richard gather himself together and draw breath, while Culver, sure of his man, steps back for a mighty blow. Dick sees it coming, and marks with a quick cool eye its fierce descent. With half a step he avoids it, and as the solid form sways past he greets it right and left with well-aimed blows, which send it headlong to the dust two long yards distant.