A dozen kindly hands helped them there, and finding too much strategy for sport in a large ring, at the bidding of the resourceful individual who had last spoken, gradually made it smaller and smaller. Two or three small blows warmed the combatants, and they set to work in earnest. Then Gubbs, under a heavy blow from Tarbut, went to the ground and stayed there. It was three minutes before he came thoroughly round, and then he sat up in a dazed fashion and looked round for his opponent. “Did I kill ’im?” he inquired, in a whisper. “No, not quite,” said one of his friends, gently. Gubbs rubbed his eyes. “What are they patting him on the back for?” he inquired, eyeing the group who were making a fuss over Tarbut. “’Cos he’s won,” said his friend. Gubbs staggered to his feet. “It’s no good,” said the landlord of the “Three Fishers,” who had run over to the scene of the fray; “you wasn’t properly trained, you know. Now, look ’ere. If you put yourself in my hands, in three weeks you can beat him holler.” “You do as Mr. Larkins ses, Joe,” said his friend, impressively. “I lived among prizefighters afore I come down ’ere,” said Mr. Larkins, expanding his small frame. “In three weeks’ time, Gubbs, you’ll be able to knock him silly.” “Well, what about Tarbut? He ought to be trained too,” said one of the men. “Fair play’s fair play any day.” “I’ll train ’im,” said an old ex-coastguardsman. “I don’t want no training,” said Tarbut, surlily. “I’ve beat ’im, beat ’im easy.” “Well, beat ’im again, Tarbut,” said one of his friends. “I’ll put my five bob on you. Who’ll take me?” For the next five minutes, heedless of the assertions of both men that they wouldn’t fight any more, bets were freely taken, Tarbut, in view of his recent success, being a hot favourite. A jarring element was introduced into the proceedings by a small, elderly man wearing a piece of blue ribbon, who, pushing his way in eagerly, inquired what it was all about. Nobody troubling to give him a correct answer, he tried to solve it for himself, and was then caught, just in the nick of time, trying to make the enemies shake hands. “You go off to your Mother’s Meeting, Peter Morgan,” said an incensed voice. “It’s a fight,” said the little man, raising his voice. “Oh, my friends——” “It’s nothing o’ the kind,” said Larkins, hotly. “I’m training ’em for a race, that’s all. They’re just going to see who’s the best runner.” Morgan, disregarding the publican, looked to others for information. “It’s quite right,” said a bystander. “You can believe me, can’t you?” “When’s it going to be?” asked Morgan. “I don’t know,” said the other, turning away. “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” said Morgan, warmly. “It’s bad enough to make a couple of men fight what don’t want to without telling a lot of lies about it.”