Bendigo had been trained at Crosby, near Liverpool; Caunt at Hatfield, to which place Tom Spring used constantly to come from London to see how the big fellow was getting on. Caunt was now thirty-three, and before he began training he weighed 18 stone. During that very arduous process he reduced himself to 14 stone, without actually injuring himself. Bendigo was three years older and only 12 stone 1 lb. Both men entered the ring in fine condition. There were about 10,000 spectators with a remarkably strong leaven of roughs from Nottingham. These gentry came armed with bludgeons and yelled for Bendigo. The betting immediately before the fight was chiefly in the proportion of 6-4 on Ben Caunt. The men came with their seconds to the scratch and, following the old custom, all four crossed hands in the middle of the ring, the seconds presently retiring to their corners, leaving the antagonists facing one another. Caunt had won the toss for corners, and had his back to the sun. There was a good deal of difficulty about the choice of a referee, and at last much against his own personal inclination, Mr. Osbaldiston--“The Old Squire,” as he was everywhere called--consented to act. Bendigo walked a little lame, but his activity in the ring was not much impaired. Right foot foremost, he crouched with his left shoulder held high in an exceedingly awkward and ungainly position: but his jaw was thus well protected from Caunt’s mighty right. The giant, on the other hand, stood nearly square with both arms well out in the manner of Bill Neate. Bendigo, as befitted the smaller man, circled round, looking for an opening and biding his time. Caunt pivoted about slowly in order to face him. Each time he went round Bendigo got nearer and nearer to his man by imperceptible stages. Then at last Caunt let go, and Bendigo, who had deliberately drawn the blow, ducked it and sent in a heavy counter to his opponent’s eye. For an instant the big man’s face expressed rage and ferocity, and then he grinned. There was always something about Bendigo which made folk laugh. He was ever a merry-andrew, always playing the goat; you couldn’t help but grin even when he hurt you. And then in the next minute he had hit again, this time with a tremendous left which reopened an old scar, and Caunt bled profusely. He lumbered in, trying to land a blow on the smaller man: but Bendigo ducked and dodged and sidestepped and avoided them all. In the third round Caunt managed to catch hold of his opponent and threw him. But although his training had not exactly hurt him, his strength was not at its greatest, and Bendigo’s speed quite overwhelmed him. He hit him as he liked, smashed his face with left and right, and would get away without a reply: then lest the reply turned out to be belated but sure, Bendigo would slip down.