An elderly man in evening dress with a weather-beaten face, hard blue eyes, and a chin like the toe of a boot stepped up alongside the speaker and jerked his head at the audience. He was an ex-amateur champion of England, and one of the best judges of boxing in the world.
The gong sounded as a signal to clear the ring, and the cluster of seconds each side made a leisurely exit through the ropes. For a moment the two boxers were left sitting on their respective stools facing each other across the brilliantly lighted arena. Then came another clang, and with a simultaneous movement they leaped lightly to their feet, and advanced swiftly but cautiously towards the centre.
To any one sufficiently pagan to admire the human form they made a pleasing and effective picture. Both nude, except for a pair of very short blue trunks, they moved forward with the lithe grace of a couple of young panthers. Under the pitiless glare of the big arc lamps the rippling muscles on their backs and shoulders were plainly visible. Bugg's white skin stood out in dazzling contrast to the swarthy colour of his opponent, but as far as bodily perfection went there seemed to be nothing to choose between them.
For a few seconds they circled stealthily round the ring sparring for an opening. Lopez, who had adopted a slightly crouching pose, was the more aggressive of the two. He was famed for the fierce impetuousness of his methods, and on his last appearance at the Club he had signalized the occasion by knocking out his adversary in the second round.
In the present instance, however, he appeared to be a little at a loss. There was nothing very unusual to the eye about Bugg's style, but the almost contemptuous ease with which he brushed aside a couple of lightning-like left leads was distinctly disconcerting to his opponent.
Realizing apparently that as far as quickness and skill went he had met more than his match, the Livadian evidently decided that his usual robust tactics might be the most effective. He drew back a pace, and then slightly dropping his head, sprang in with the vicious fury of a wildcat, hitting out fiercely with both hands.
The suddenness of the attack would have taken most boxers by surprise, but that embarrassing emotion appeared to have no place in Bugg's philosophy. With the swiftness of light he stepped to one side, and just as the human battering ram in front of him hurled itself forward, he brought up his right hand in a whizzing upper cut that caught his adversary under the angle of the jaw. The blow was so perfectly timed and delivered with such tremendous force that it lifted Lopez clean off his feet. With his arms flung out wide each side of him he made a sort of convulsive jerk into the air, and then crashed over backwards on to the floor, where he lay a huddled and inert mass.
For an instant the whole house remained hushed in a stupefied silence. Then as the time-keeper began to count off the fateful seconds a sudden hoarse roar broke out all over the building. Above the din could be heard the voices of Lopez' seconds, howling abuse and entreaty at their unconscious principal. In vain the referee waved his arms, entreating some sort of order for the count.
"Doggy" Donaldson clutched Tony by the wrist. "Damn it!" he shouted excitedly, "I believe he's broken his neck."
Even as he spoke came the clang of the time-keeper's gong, signifying that the ten seconds had passed. In a moment half a dozen figures were swarming over the ropes, but before any one of them could reach him, Bugg had picked up his limp, unconscious adversary in his arms, and was carrying him across the ring to his own corner. He seemed to be by far the coolest and most collected person present.