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descended on them from all sides. Two or three flicking movements from Meanix’s leading arm failed to connect with the bobbing Negro, who showed no aggression. Responding to the impatient cries of his following, Meanix advanced several inches with a simultaneous heel-toe movement of both feet, rather as a fencer progresses. Then he brought his right fist above his shoulder and swung it violently towards his opponent’s face. It was an obvious punch, and easily parried, but he followed it with a stabbing left thrust that found its mark on the Ebony’s belly. Then Meanix closed, butting his head hard into his man’s chest and wrapping his arms around the torso. With a swift lunge forward of his right leg and a simultaneous jerk, he swung the Negro against the bridge made by his thigh and toppled him. To a warm ovation the first round was over.
    “First knockdown to the Ox,” said Thackeray with significance. The fight would not last long in his opinion.
    “He’s a redoubtable fellow,” agreed Jago.
    Cribb was watching the Ebony, who stood in his corner while his attendant wiped mud from his arms.
    Half a minute was allowed between rounds. At a signal from the referee the pair squared up again, and soon began to exchange strenuous punches, the Negro giving as good as he received. Red patches began to colour Meanix’s chest, where it had received the Ebony’s attention. A sudden crash of heads jolted both men and for a few seconds, as if by mutual consent, they wrestled against the ropes and then crashed together to the grass.
    The following two rounds were brief and uneventful, both ending with Meanix back-heeling his rival. The bookies in the crowd tried to revive interest in the odds at each break between rounds, but they were doing poor business.
    “Everyone waits for first blood,” Cribb explained. “Watch the rush to bet when the claret flows.”
    It happened in the fifth round. Meanix caught the Ebony squarely on the nose.
    “Scarlet as a geranium. What d’you think of that?” declared one of their neighbours. “As sweet a punch as I’ve seen!
    Plant one on ’is peepers, Meanix.”
    Without quite managing that, the Ox succeeded in felling his wounded rival with a swinging blow to the ear. The Ebony’s seconds hauled him to the corner. There he sat on one attendant’s arched thigh, while the other stanched the flow from his nose.
    “That’s the kind of blow that tells,” said Cribb. “A good fist fighter will touch up the listeners as often as he’s able. It’s an art that died when glove fighting came in. If you’ve ever felt a man’s raw ’uns about your ears, you’ll know what I mean.”
    For the next six rounds the Ox repeatedly battered his rival to his knees, several times falling heavily across him to add to the effect. The betting, which had never favoured the Ebony, was now heavily against him. Meanix had not once resorted to his second’s knee between rounds.
    “No sort of mill at all, this,” declared Thackeray with a superior air. “They shouldn’t have brought a novice out to face the Londoner. He hasn’t fairly grassed Meanix once.”
    “There’s time enough,” Cribb pointed out. “The black’s scarce marked as yet. Meanix has the edge on the pully-hauly work, but it won’t count for much in a fight to the finish. There’s steam in the Ebony.”
    Almost in response to this tribute the Negro rose to the referee’s next call and began to counterassault, plainly surprising Meanix. A well-directed left caught the Ox in the throat as he lumbered forward incautiously. A second jab with the same fist split his lip.
    “On the ivories!” shouted one of the crowd.
    Meanix put the back of his right hand to the bleeding mouth. It was an instinctive movement to check for blood. Unfortunately for him, it left his body unguarded. A lightning blow caught him in the stomach, and he dropped like a stone.
    “Beautiful! On the mark!” called the admirer. Now it was the turn of