And so the fight went on, Scroggins invariably getting the worst of the exchange of blows, Turner the wrestling. The twenty-second was a tremendous round. They began with a furious rally, giving blow for blow with all their might, got away from each other in a moment, and then at it again. Scroggins charged in with his head down, and Turner met him with a vicious uppercut which caught him on the neck; and then, in trying for a fall, was underneath once more. The plucky little sailor was now visibly distressed and his wind was badly touched. He gasped for breath, and though he made his characteristic dash in the next round, it was clear that he was being out-fought. The betting on Turner rose to 5 and 6-1, and Scroggins tottered at the scratch, so weak now that when he lunged forward to hit he fell over. Turner hit him as he pleased, and Scroggins replied with wild blows which beat the air. He was nearly done by the time they fell in the twenty-fifth round. The men’s seconds, for some reason, instead of keeping opposite corners, nursed their principals between the rounds side by side. As they sat on the knees of their bottle-holders, Turner stretched out a hand and took Scroggins’s to show him that he admired his pluck and that there was no ill-will. And then, immediately afterwards, on resuming, he planted a blow in the middle of the sailor’s face which knocked him clean off his legs. Such is sport. It is a wonderful thing to show your admiration and affection for a man at one moment and then almost in the same breath to hurt him dreadfully in cold blood. No wonder that foreigners think us mad. It was at about this period of the battle that Scroggins had a strong nip of brandy, but he was too far gone for such mild remedies. Again Turner caught him as hard as he could hit, and Scroggins backed away to the side of the ring. Turner beckoned to him and called on him to come and fight, but Scroggins was getting all the rest he could, and Turner in the end had to go after him. The Welshman was still fresh, for all the severe falls that he had suffered. And yet, the sailor with his wind gone, his eyes almost closed, his face swollen and mutilated, though he could not see to hit, even in the thirtieth round he continued to throw his opponent. But Jack Scroggins was quite dazed after that, and only stood at all by the force of his will. Turner upper-cut him again and again. In the thirty-third round he went down before a light hit, and on being carried to his corner gave in. Turner is said to have left the ring with hardly a mark on his face.