The morning was threatening, but the enlivening rays of bright Sol chased all gloom, and infused animation, interest, and spirits through the multitude. It might be termed the first turn-out of the fancy for the spring season, and the vehicles were gay and elegant. The presence of a sprinkling of Corinthians gave life to the scene. More interest was excited upon the fight than might have been expected, as both the boxers on point of trial were viewed as new ones to the ring. Hickman, although a light subject in himself, was, to the amateurs, completely a dark one. “What sort of a chap is he?” “What has he done?” “Has he ever fought anybody?” were repeatedly asked, and as repeatedly answered, “That no one knew anything about him.” It was, however, generally understood that he was very strong; but it was urged, as a sort of drawback, that he had too much chaffing about him. On the other hand, though “Young Rump Steak” stood high as a glove practitioner, his strength and stamina were doubted. He was a youth of not more than nineteen years of age, nearly six feet high, twelve stone in weight, but thought to have more gristle than bone; however, the keen air of Hampstead, added to good training, had not only produced an improvement of his frame, but had reduced the odds against him, and, on the morning of fighting, it was, in a great measure, even betting, or “Young Peter” for choice. The importance of the “Man of Gas” was kept up by his trainer, Tom Shelton, who confidently asserted that if Hickman did not win he would quit the boxing ring, and take up a quiet abode in the bosom of Father Thames, Oliver also declaring that he would follow his namesake’s example if their “Tom” did not win in a canter. Such was the state of affairs when the moment arrived for the appearance of the heroes on the plains of Moulsey. Hickman showed first in the ring and threw up his castor, attended by his seconds, Oliver and Shelton. Crawley soon followed, waited upon by Painter and Jones. The colours were tied to the stakes, and at one o’clock the men set-to. THE FIGHT. Round 1.—The Gas-light blade seemed well primed as a “four pound burner,” and eager to eclipse his opponent with his superior brilliancy. He showed fight instantly, rushed upon his opponent, and gave Young Rump Steak a mugger, but it did not prove effective. Crawley endeavoured to retreat from the boring qualities of his antagonist, and tapped Hickman over his guard. The latter went in, almost laughing at the science against him, and Crawley could not resist his efforts with anything like a stopper. He also received a desperate hit upon his right ear, that not only drew the claret, but floored him. In going down he unfortunately hit his head against a stake. (“Well done, my Gassy,” from the Light Company; and seven to four offered upon him.)