that he had lost nothing by the aid of artificial spirit. Oliver was quiet and easy in his manner; and although he was aware of the importance of the contest upon which he was about to enter, exhibited as much coolness as if he were engaged in his ordinary occupation of Commissary. He wore a tarpaulin hat, which gave him much the appearance of a veteran tar, instead of a veteran of the boxing school. On stripping, it was clear that Burn had the advantage of height and weight, as well as in freshness, although his flesh shook within his skin, as if the latter had been made too large, or the former had shrunk from its natural rotundity, the inevitable effect of training upon an old frame. Oliver looked sleek, and in good case. He was, however, stiff in the pins, which, although not “gummy,” as might have been expected from his frequent attacks of the gout, wanted that elasticity of muscle requisite to the display of activity, an important essential in getting away from the rush of a heavy and determined antagonist, as he discovered in the course of the mill. The odds on setting-to were six and seven to four on Oliver. THE FIGHT. Round 1.—The men eyed each other _à la distance_, Oliver smiling, Ben as serious as Newton solving a problem in astronomy, their hands well up, and Tom waiting for the attack; but Ben was in no hurry. Tom tried a feint—no go; Ben steady. After a short pause Ben let out his left, caught Tom on the canister, and stopped the counter with his right. Neat stopping, followed by counter hits with the left, which raised a blush on the cheek of each. Good straight hitting and stopping, and no flinching. Tom caught Ben on the pimple with his left, but had it on the mark from Ben’s left in return. A sharp rally, give and take in good style; no getting away or mincing matters, it was all hard work. Both became flushed and got to a close, but little was done at in-fighting; mutual efforts to chop and fib, when they broke away. Ben was all alive, and popped in his left straight as an arrow on Tom’s mouth. Tom returned, but was short. (Cries of “First blood” from Sam, and Tom showed claret from the mouth.) Burn again put in his left, and stopped the counter. Oliver was slow, but sure, and stealing a march, gave Ben a poke on the snout. Ben had him on the noddle in return. Oliver threw in a blow on Ben’s ribs with his right, but he was rather short. Ben countered on his pimple; good manly fighting, and neither retreated an inch. Ben flung out his left as swift as lightning, and catching Oliver between the chin and the lip, gave him a “snig,” from which the blood flowed copiously. (“No mistake about blood now,” cried the Burnites, while Sam said “it was a certainty.” “Aye,” cried Ben exultingly, “I can lick him and Tom Spring in the same ring!”) Oliver smiled, but was not dismayed; he went to his man and tried his left, but was short.