Helmsgail was hardly touched: he had some insignificant bruises and a scratch on his collar bone.
No one was cold now. They laid sixteen and a quarter to one on Helmsgail.
Harry Carleton cried out,—
"It is all over with Phelem-ghe-Madone. I will lay my peerage of Bella-aqua, and my title of Lord Bellew, against the Archbishop of Canterbury's old wig, on Helmsgail."
"Give me your muzzle," said Kilter to Phelem-ghe-Madone. And stuffing the bloody flannel into the bottle, he washed him all over with gin. The mouth reappeared, and he opened one eyelid. His temples seemed fractured.
"One round more, my friend," said Kilter; and he added, "for the honour of the low town."
The Welsh and the Irish understand each other, still Phelem made no sign of having any power of understanding left.
Phelem arose, supported by Kilter. It was the twenty-fifth round. From the way in which this Cyclops, for he had but one eye, placed himself in position, it was evident that this was the last round, for no one doubted his defeat. He placed his guard below his chin, with the awkwardness of a failing man.
Helmsgail, with a skin hardly sweating, cried out,—
"I'll back myself, a thousand to one."