Most of the boxers are former pugilists who have been gathered up in the draft net, and so long as they can get a chance to put on the gloves they are just as pleased to be here as anywhere else from all appearances. But sometimes the scrappers aren’t “pugs” at that; just plain citizens who possibly have been shadow boxing in the secrecy of their bedrooms for the past ten years and longing for courage enough to step into the ring with a real fighter and discover how good (or how bad) they are. They are getting the opportunity here all right, and some of them are uncovering a likely line of jabs and counters. One fair-haired youngster downed a mighty pugnacious-looking Italian a few nights ago. But to-night’s final was a winner. Three scraps had been pulled off with real enthusiasm and after the final round, there was a call for more material, but no one in the crowd came forward to put on the gloves. There were calls and jeers and all that sort of thing, then suddenly out from the crowd stepped a soggy-looking, little red-haired fellow. Yells of “Yah Redney!” “Hi Redney!” “Good boy Brick Top!” Redney blushed considerably and held up his hand for silence. And when he got it he explained. “I ain’t a-going to fight no one but our Mess Sergeant. That’s what I’m out here for, and I’ll stick here till he comes.” Calls for Mess Sergeant. He wasn’t present. A speeding messenger from Red’s company hurried out through the night to find him. Ten minutes later, said Sergeant, a soggy-looking chap himself, was brought in and amid yells from the crowd he stepped inside the ring. He looked once at Brick Top, then spat on his hands and said: “Where’s them gloves?” Gloves were produced and laced on, then without the preliminary handshake they squared off and went to it. And what a battle! They didn’t stop for rounds, or time out, or anything. They just ducked and punched and whaled away at each other until the blood began to spatter all over and still they kept at it. I don’t know what the misunderstanding between them was and didn’t find out, but they sure meant to settle the thing once and for all. And the spectators; they went wild. For ten minutes steadily the fighters milled and I never saw a better slugging match. The Sergeant had had more experience in boxing, that was certain, but what Red lacked in skill he made up for in hitting power. Every time his glove met the Sergeant’s face it smacked as loud as a hand clap. [Illustration: They didn’t stop for rounds, or time out, or anything.] Then just when it seemed as if they must be tired out, there was a sudden clash and a whirl of fists and Redney ducked away and started one from the floor. It was an uppercut and it found a clean hole between the Sergeant’s two arms, and met him flush on the point of the jaw. He staggered, tried to fall into a clinch, missed the elusive Redney and went down with a thump. “1-2-3-4-5-6-” counted the referee.