It was now four o’clock, and the day fast waning; in fact, it was difficult to distinguish the faces of persons from one side of the ring to the other; but a clear moon hung out its lamp, and promised a continuance of light. All being in readiness, Paddock flung his castor into the ring, following it himself amidst loud cheers. He was attended by Jack Hannan and Bob Fuller. The Slasher, who was not long after him, was waited on by Nobby Clarke and Jem Molyneux. Paddock looked fresh, laughing, and apparently confident; while the Slasher was cool, quiet, and smiling. After a great deal of difficulty as to the selection of a referee, both parties agreed upon Ned Donnelly. Jem Burn addressed this functionary on the part of Paddock, and said all he wanted was a fair and manly fight, and that there should be no captious objections to any accidental occurrence. He wished the merits of the men might be fairly tested, and only desired that the best man might win. The men now prepared for action, and at thirty minutes past four, the rising moon looking modest from the east, and the last rays of the setting sun painting the western horizon, the gladiators appeared at the scratch, and commenced THE FIGHT. Round 1.――The men having chosen their corners, fortune enabled the Slasher to place his back to the rising moon, so that his toothless mug was in shade. His herculean frame was, however, sufficiently visible, and his easy confidence and quiet deportment increased the confidence of his friends, and led all who scanned his proportions to consider him perfectly competent to hit down a hippopotamus; or, like the Greek boxer of old, floor a cantankerous bull, even without the assistance of the cestus. Paddock, although when opposed to Bendigo he appeared of the burly breed, loomed small in contrast with the Slasher. The disparity in their size was obvious, and as he jumped about seeking an opening, a veteran ring-goer exclaimed, “It’s any odds against the young’un, he’s got his master before him now.” In fact, the very style of holding up his hands, and the yokel-like feints (completely out of distance) with which he commenced, showed he was puzzled how to begin the job he had so confidently undertaken; presently he determined to chance it, and jumped in. Fortune favours the bold, and he gave the Slasher a clout on the jaw-bone with his left, the Tipton hitting in return on his shoulder or breast, and driving him back. The Slasher stepped in; Paddock retreated before him to his corner, hitting up again, but the Tipton stopped him. A smart exchange took place, and Paddock slipped down to get out of mischief.