Can’t make out why they’re behind time. Lord, listen to them cheering! That must be Cribb sure enough! Yes, there he goes! He has Joe Ward with him. He must be his bottle-holder. Looks to be in fine feather, don’t he? I’ve laid a monkey on him, and another he gives the first knock-down. The only thing is that he is slow. No denying it. But excellent bottom, never shy at all.”

The Champion’s hat had been tossed into the ring by now, and he had followed it, and was acknowledging with a broad smile, and a wave of his hand, the cheers and yells of encouragement that greeted him. He was an inch and a half taller than the Black, a heavy-looking fighter, but neat on his feet. He did indeed look to be in fine feather, but so, too, did Molyneux, emerging from his greatcoat. The Black had an enormous reach, and huge muscular development. He looked a formidable customer, but the betting was steady at three to one on Cribb.

In another few moments the seconds and bottle-holders left the ring, and at eighteen minutes past twelve precisely (as Mr. Fitzjohn verified by a glance at his watch) the fight began.

For about a minute both men sparred cautiously, then Cribb made play right and left, and Molyneux returning slightly to the head, a brisk rally followed. The Champion put in a blow to the throat, and Molyneux fell.

“Nothing to choose between ’em, so far,” said Mr. Fitzjohn wisely. “Mere flourishing. But Cribb always starts slow. Stands well up, don’t he?”

At setting-to again the Champion showed first blood, at the mouth, and immediately a brisk rally commenced. Cribb put in a good hit with his right; Molyneux returned like lightning on the head with the left flush, and some quick fighting followed at half-arm. They closed, and after a fierce struggle the Black threw Cribb a cross-buttock.

Mr. Fitzjohn, who had risen from his seat in his excitement, sat down again, and said there was nothing in it.