His two contests at the National Sporting Club with Spike Robson, of Newcastle, for the English Feather-weight Belt, are worth a brief note in order to show Driscoll at the height of his power. Robson was three or four years older, but a very tough customer, with any amount of pluck. The first match, which took place on April 18th, 1910, had been keenly anticipated for a long time beforehand, if only because everything in which Driscoll had a hand was worth seeing. You always knew where you were with Driscoll. He always hit clean, and for choice, straight. There was never any clinching to avoid punishment, never any getting on the “blind side” of the referee. The first three rounds were level. Robson was a good boxer, a keen fighter, but he was neither so quick with his hands or feet as Driscoll. However, it was he who landed the first considerable blow in the fourth round, striking heavily on his opponent’s eye. In the fifth round he did a very foolish thing. There was something about his gay, elegant, upright and good-looking antagonist which irritated him. Driscoll was so indifferent, so imperturbable. He would smash him, he would spoil his face for him. The instant the bell rang for time he would catch Driscoll before he was clear of his corner, before, in fact, he was ready. That was the way to smash him--to give him no time to take up his position in the middle of the ring, with his left foot and arm out, nicely balanced on his toes. He’d show him. And he charged furiously head down across the ring like a terrier after his best enemy. And Jem Driscoll merely waited, until Robson was almost on him and then coolly stepped aside. It was beautifully done--no haste, no exertion, only the exactly right judgment of time. And Spike Robson couldn’t recover himself--he was going much too fast for that--and was brought up by crashing into the stool which the seconds had not yet been able to remove from Driscoll’s corner.