A threatening murmur broke from the crowd.
“There in that sweet secluded spot,” said Mr. Morgan, shaking his head,“these two men, stripped to the waist, knocked one another about for fifteen rounds. First blood fell to Tarbut, he got in with his left on Gubbs’s nose, then Gubbs up with a fearful blow and knocked him flat. It was as clean a blow as ever I see. I took Tarbut on my knee—poor fellow, he was doing wrong, but still he was suffering, and Peter Morgan’s always got a knee for the sufferer. Second round he was more cautious, and watching ’is opportunity, he clenched and fell with Gubbs underneath. It was a disgusting spectacle.”
Mr. Larkins bent savagely over to Mr. Bullock and whispered in his ear.
“When time was called”—said Mr. Morgan.
“Who called it?” inquired a voice, with the air of one making a point.
“I did,” said Mr. Morgan; “there was nobody else;—both of ’em walked round each other a bit, sparring and looking for opportunities. I think the third round was the longest of all. Both of ’em kept getting in a lot of little knocks and then dodging away again. Then Tarbut caught Gubbs one in the bread-ba—in the wind—and then followed up on his jaw and knocked him down again. It was a disgusting spectacle.”
“Must ha’ been,” said a dejected voice.
“After that there was twelve more rounds,” continued the narrator; “sometimes Tarbut had the best of it, and sometimes Gubbs. Both men was very determined and fought very fair. It was good, solid hard hitting, and they were marked all over before they’d finished. Once Gubbs gave Tarbut a blow over the heart, and I thought he wouldn’t get up to time.”
“I wouldn’t if you hadn’t blowed water into my face out of that puddle,” said Tarbut.
“It was a most disgusting spectacle,” said Mr. Peter Morgan, hurriedly.