“You have already an account to answer for with me,” said Hume, with his sinister sneer, and as he spoke he was swept by the rush of the crowd into my uncle’s very arms. The two men’s faces were not more than a few inches apart, and Sir Lothian’s bold eyes had to sink before the imperious scorn which gleamed coldly in those of my uncle. “We will settle our accounts, never fear, though I degrade myself in meeting such a blackleg. What is it, Craven?” “We shall have to declare a draw, Tregellis.” “My man has the fight in hand.” “I cannot help it. I cannot attend to my duties when every moment I am cut over with a whip or a stick.” Jackson suddenly made a wild dash into the crowd, but returned with empty hands and a rueful face. “They’ve stolen my timekeeper’s watch,” he cried. “A little cove snatched it out of my hand.” My uncle clapped his hand to his fob. “Mine has gone also!” he cried. “Draw it at once, or your man will get hurt,” said Jackson, and we saw that as the undaunted smith stood up to Wilson for another round, a dozen rough fellows were clustering round him with bludgeons. “Do you consent to a draw, Sir Lothian Hume?” “I do.” “And you, Sir Charles?” “Certainly not.” “The ring is gone.” “That is no fault of mine.” “Well, I see no help for it. As referee I order that the men be withdrawn, and that the stakes be returned to their owners.” “A draw! A draw!” shrieked every one, and the crowd in an instant dispersed in every direction, the pedestrians running to get a good lead upon the London road, and the Corinthians in search of their horses and carriages. Harrison ran over to Wilson’s corner and shook him by the hand. “I hope I have not hurt you much.” “I’m hard put to it to stand. How are you?” “My head’s singin’ like a kettle. It was the rain that helped me.” “Yes, I thought I had you beat one time. I never wish a better battle.” “Nor me either. Good-bye.” And so those two brave-hearted fellows made their way amidst the yelping roughs, like two wounded lions amidst a pack of wolves and jackals. I say again that, if the ring has fallen low, it is not in the main the fault of the men who have done the fighting, but it lies at the door of the vile crew of ring-side parasites and ruffians, who are as far below the honest pugilist as the welsher and the blackleg are below the noble racehorse which serves them as a pretext for their villainies. CHAPTER XIX. CLIFFE ROYAL. MY uncle was humanely anxious to get Harrison to bed as soon as possible, for the smith, although he laughed at his own injuries, had none the less been severely punished. “Don’t you dare ever to ask my leave to fight again, Jack Harrison,” said his wife, as she looked ruefully at his battered face. “Why, it’s worse than when you beat Black Baruk; and if it weren’t for your topcoat, I couldn’t swear you were the man who led me to the altar! If the King of England ask you, I’ll never let you do it more.”