“I think the Black hit him as he fell,” said Mr. Fitzjohn. “I think that must have been it. Jackson makes no sign, you see; it can’t have been a foul blow, or he would.”

The disturbance died down as both fighters came up to the mark for the sixth round. It was now obvious that Molyneux was greatly distressed for wind. Cribb was still full of gaiety. He avoided a rather wild lunge to left and right, and threw in a blow to the body. Molyneux managed to stop it, but was doubled up immediately by a terrific blow at the neck. He got away, but was dreadfully cut up.

“What did I tell you?” cried Mr. Fitzjohn. “Good God, the Black’s as sick as a horse! He’s all abroad! Cribb has him on the run!”

The blow seemed indeed to have shaken the Black up badly. He was hitting short, dancing about the ring in a way that provoked the rougher part of the crowd to jeers and yells of laughter. Cribb followed him round the ring, and floored him by a hit at full arm’s length.

The odds being offered rose to five to one, and Mr. Fitzjohn could scarcely keep his seat for excitement. “The next round ends it!” he said. “The Black’s lost in rage!”

He was wrong, however. Molyneux came up to time, and charged in, planting one or two blows. Cribb put in some straight hits at the throat, stepping back after each. The Black bored in, fell, but whether from a hit or from exhaustion neither Peregrine nor Mr. Fitzjohn could see.

Richmond got Molyneux up to time again. He rallied gamely, but his distance was ill-judged. Cribb did much as he liked with him, got his head into chancery, and fibbed till he fell.

“Lombard Street to a China orange!” exclaimed Mr. Fitzjohn. “Ay, you can see how Richmond and Bill Gibbons are working on him, but it’s my belief he’s done .... No, by God, he’s coming up to the mark again! Damme, the fellow’s got excellent bottom, say what you will! But he’s dead-beat, Taverner. Wonder Richmond don’t throw the towel in .... Hey, that’s finished him! What a left! Enough to break his jaw!”