The youth scrambled to his feet and, joined by a half dozen intimates, once more swarmed up the side of the box. The girl shrank back, and futilely tugged at the closed box door, which had become jammed. The old man, quivering with senile fury, leaned over the box-front and grappled the foremost assailant. He was brushed aside and, amid a hurricane of laughter from the paid phalanx in the gallery, the group of half-drunk, wholly-inspired young brutes clustered across the box rail. The whole incident had not occupied five seconds. Yet it had served to draw the multi-divided attention of the mob and the rest of the escaping audience to that particular and new point of interest And now, dozens of the tougher element, seeing a prospect of better sport than a mere campaign row, elbowed their way to the spot. The girl’s cry and that of the woman with her had barely reached the stage when Clive Standish, with one tremendous spring, had cleared the six-foot distance between footlights and box. There was a confused, whirling, cursing mass of bodies and arms. Then the whole group rolled outward over the rail. Before they had fairly touched ground Clive was on his feet, the centre of a surprised but bellicose swirl of opponents who were nothing loath to change their plan of baiting a well-dressed girl into the more thrilling pastime of beating a well-dressed candidate. As the score of toughs rushed him, Clive had barely time to get his back into the shallow angle between the bulging outer bases of the two proscenium boxes. Then the rush was upon him. Hitting clean and straight, and with the speed and unerring deadliness of the trained heavyweight boxer, Clive for the moment held his own. There was no question of guarding. He relied rather for protection on the unusual length of his arms. Nor could a blow be planned beforehand. It was hit, hit, and keep on hitting. Fully twenty youths and men surged forward at him, and at nearly every blow one went down among the pushing throng. But for each who fell there were always two more to take his place. The impact and crash of blows sounded above the yells and shuffle of feet. This was not boxing. It was butchery. Only his semi-sheltered position and the self-confusing hurry and numbers of his assailants kept Clive on his feet and allowed him to hold his own. Yet, as he dimly realized even through the wild lust of battle that gripped and intoxicated him, the fight was but a question of moments. Soon someone, running in, must grapple or trip him, or a kick would reach and disable him. And once down, in that bedlam of stamping, kicking feet, his life would not be worth a scrap of paper.