The voice that was counting ceased. The limp figure did not move. The one wistful eye of the victor closed for a moment in relief. There was a sudden incursion of hurrying figures into the ring....
The great fight was over. Nobby Keeks had beaten Bill Cockles.
By Theresa Chingles.
I was one of forty-four women who witnessed the great battle last night. There were, it was said, over three thousand men.
On my left sat a young girl in a rose-pink evening dress, with a dove-colour opera cloak covering her bare shoulders. Her eyes followed intently the struggling figures on the stage, and I observed that she wore an engagement ring with three diamonds.
A few seats away, surrounded by a swarm of men in evening dress, sat a grey-haired woman, watching the fight with interest through a gold-rimmed lorgnette. Her eyes twinkled as heavy blows were delivered, and when one of the men began to bleed copiously from the nose, she uttered an exclamation of delight. She wore black.
So far as I could observe, no woman present showed any sign of repulsion. It seemed to me significant of the times. I whispered to my neighbour, "O tempora! O mores!" but she replied coldly, "Not at all!" I checked my impulse to add "Autres temps, autres mœurs!"
Of the actual fight I am not competent to speak. I was most interested in the referee, whose strong mobile face reminded me occasionally of Lord Byron, at other times of Mr. Winston Churchill.
By the Rev. Robert Shackleberry.
I had never seen a boxing contest before I was invited by the enterprising editor of The Daily Gong to witness the encounter last night between "Nobby" Keeks and William Cockles.