Somewhere a voice was counting slowly, steadily, unhesitatingly--_one_--_two_--_three_.... The voice had in it the inexorable quality of Fate; it brought tears to the eyes like the wail of the Chorus in some Greek drama. I looked at the man by my side. His regard was fixed intently on the prostrate figure in the ring. His fingers played uneasily with his watch-chain. He wore evening dress, and I noticed that his tie was a little crooked. Away outside we caught the distant hoot of a motorcar. A dog barked. Then a woman in the audience sneezed; it seemed unwarrantable, impertinent, almost a desecration.... The voice that was counting ceased. The limp figure did not move. The one wistful eye of the victor closed for a moment in relief. There was a sudden incursion of hurrying figures into the ring.... The great fight was over. Nobby Keeks had beaten Bill Cockles. _By Theresa Chingles._ I was one of forty-four women who witnessed the great battle last night. There were, it was said, over three thousand men. On my left sat a young girl in a rose-pink evening dress, with a dove-colour opera cloak covering her bare shoulders. Her eyes followed intently the struggling figures on the stage, and I observed that she wore an engagement ring with three diamonds. A few seats away, surrounded by a swarm of men in evening dress, sat a grey-haired woman, watching the fight with interest through a gold-rimmed lorgnette. Her eyes twinkled as heavy blows were delivered, and when one of the men began to bleed copiously from the nose, she uttered an exclamation of delight. She wore black. So far as I could observe, no woman present showed any sign of repulsion. It seemed to me significant of the times. I whispered to my neighbour, "_O tempora! O mores!_" but she replied coldly, "Not at all!" I checked my impulse to add "_Autres temps, autres moeurs!_" Of the actual fight I am not competent to speak. I was most interested in the referee, whose strong mobile face reminded me occasionally of Lord BYRON, at other times of Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL. _By the Rev. Robert Shackleberry._ I had never seen a boxing contest before I was invited by the enterprising editor of _The Daily Gong_ to witness the encounter last night between "Nobby" Keeks and William Cockles. I found an excellent seat reserved for me. It was nearing midnight when the two men mounted the platform. Cockles came first, wearing a scarlet dressing-gown with yellow collar and cuffs. He seemed to me a bluff, hearty, good-tempered-looking man, though perhaps unduly prominent in the lower jaw. Keeks, who followed, wore a bright green dressing-gown with a pink sash, and shook hands with six or seven members of the audience. He was taller and heavier than his opponent, and his features, to my mind, more intelligent but less amiable.