I had often looked upon the mighty arms and neck of the smith, but I had never before seen him stripped to the waist, or understood the marvellous symmetry of development which had made him in his youth the favourite model of the London sculptors. There was none of that white sleek skin and shimmering play of sinew which made Wilson a beautiful picture, but in its stead there was a rugged grandeur of knotted and tangled muscle, as though the roots of some old tree were writhing from breast to shoulder, and from shoulder to elbow. Even in repose the sun threw shadows from the curves of his skin, but when he exerted himself every muscle bunched itself up, distinct and hard, breaking his whole trunk into gnarled knots of sinew. His skin, on face and body, was darker and harsher than that of his youthful antagonist, but he looked tougher and harder, an effect which was increased by the sombre colour of his stockings and breeches. He entered the ring, sucking a lemon, with Jim Belcher and Caleb Baldwin, the coster, at his heels. Strolling across to the post, he tied his blue bird’s-eye handkerchief over the west-countryman’s yellow, and then walked to his opponent with his hand out. “I hope I see you well, Wilson,” said he. “Pretty tidy, I thank you,” answered the other. “We’ll speak to each other in a different vashion, I ’spects, afore we part.” “But no ill-feeling,” said the smith, and the two fighting men grinned at each other as they took their own corners. “May I ask, Mr. Referee, whether these two men have been weighed?” asked Sir Lothian Hume, standing up in the outer ring. “Their weight has just been taken under my supervision, sir,” answered Mr. Craven. “Your man brought the scale down at thirteen-three, and Harrison at thirteen-eight.” “He’s a fifteen-stoner from the loins upwards,” cried Dutch Sam, from his corner. “We’ll get some of it off him before we finish.” “You’ll get more off him than ever you bargained for,” answered Jim Belcher, and the crowd laughed at the rough chaff. CHAPTER XVIII. THE SMITH’S LAST BATTLE. “CLEAR the outer ring!” cried Jackson, standing up beside the ropes with a big silver watch in his hand.