Ah, my word! my word! then they got at it. That old Japhra--a rare one, that Gipsy Japhra!--sing out "Cut in! Cut in! little master!" and that quick-boy gives a heave of hisself an' they meet, those two, slapper-dash! slapper-dash! this way! that way! punchin', punchin'! an' they fall away, those two, an' breathe theirselves, an' pant theirselves; an' that foxy one has his mouth all anyhow an' fair roarin' of his breath through it; an' his head all twisty-ways with only one eye for watchin' with; an' they rush those two--my life! they were rare ones! Hit as they come, those two--an' that put the stopper on it. Like stones--_crack!_ like stones--my word on it, their fists met, an' Foxy drop his left arm like it was broke at the elbow. Then he takes it! Like a bull-tarrier!--like a bull-tarrier, my word on it, that quick-boy lep' at him. _One!_ he smash him an' heart him, an' I see that foxy one glaze in his eye an' stagger with it. _Two!_ that quick-boy drive him an' rib him, an' I hear that foxy one grunt an' see him waggle up his hanging arm an' drop it. _Three!_ that quick-boy smash him an' throat him, an' back he goes, that foxy one; an' crash he goes! an' flat he lies--an', my life! to hear the breathing of him!
Life of me! there was never a knock-out like it; never one could do it like that quick-boy done it! Never no one as quick as that quick-boy when first along he come _tic-tac! tic-tac! tic-tac!_ left-right! left-right! left-right! Never one could come again after he was bashed like that quick-boy come. Never his like! One of the rare ones, one of the clean-breds, one of the true-blues, one of the all-rights, one of the get-there, stop-there, win-there--one o' the picked!
Quivering in silence the facing crowds stood while the count went.
"Nine!" throated Stingo--scarcely a whisper.
Stillness while perhaps five seconds passed. Then Boss Maddox opened his hands towards the ring in an expressive gesture.
Then men came rushing to Pinsent and shook him: "Up, Foxy! Up!" Then Pinsent drew up his knees, groaned, and seemed to collapse anew. Then, then the storm burst in a bellow of sound, in a rush of figures. All, all of clamour that had gone before--of exultation, hate, defiance, blood-want, rage--seemed now to bind up in two clanging rolls of thunder that in thunder went, in thunder thundered back, and thundered on again. Percival turned and saw Japhra running towards him, an arm's length in advance of the mob that followed. He fell into Japhra's arms, felt himself pressed, pressed to Japhra's heart, heard in his ears "Never thy like! Son of mine, never thy like!" He knew a driving mob behind his back, before, and all about him--heard curses, grapplings, blows. Heard Japhra's cry "Up with him! Up!" felt himself borne aloft and dimly was conscious that his bearers were staggered this way and that by the flood that surged about them.... Sudden darkness, and sudden most delicious air and sudden most delicious rain was his next impression--they had got him outside the tent.... At his next he was in the van, on his couch, smiling at those who bent above him.