A dozen kindly hands helped them there, and finding too much strategy for sport in a large ring, at the bidding of the resourceful individual who had last spoken, gradually made it smaller and smaller. Two or three small blows warmed the combatants, and they set to work in earnest. Then Gubbs, under a heavy blow from Tarbut, went to the ground and stayed there.
It was three minutes before he came thoroughly round, and then he sat up in a dazed fashion and looked round for his opponent.
“Did I kill ’im?” he inquired, in a whisper.
“No, not quite,” said one of his friends, gently.
Gubbs rubbed his eyes. “What are they patting him on the back for?” he inquired, eyeing the group who were making a fuss over Tarbut.
“’Cos he’s won,” said his friend.
Gubbs staggered to his feet.
“It’s no good,” said the landlord of the “Three Fishers,” who had run over to the scene of the fray; “you wasn’t properly trained, you know. Now, look ’ere. If you put yourself in my hands, in three weeks you can beat him holler.”
“You do as Mr. Larkins ses, Joe,” said his friend, impressively.
“I lived among prizefighters afore I come down ’ere,” said Mr. Larkins, expanding his small frame. “In three weeks’ time, Gubbs, you’ll be able to knock him silly.”