“Yus,” agreed Seaman Smith. “A crost between our beloved ’Oppy an’ ole Bill Jones ’ere. Bill was reported to ’ave ’ad a twin brother—but it was allus serposed Bill ate ’im when ’e wasn’ lookin’.” The backers of Corporal Dowdall were encouraged at seeing a man who looked like a gentleman and bore none of the traditional marks of the prize-fighter. His head was not cropped to the point of bristly baldness, his nose was unbroken, his eyes well opened and unblackened, his ears unthickened, his body untattooed. He had the white skin, small trim moustache, high-bred features, small extremities, and general appearance and bearing of an officer. Ho, G’rilla Dowdall would make short work of _that_ tippy young toff. Why, look at him! And indeed it made you shudder to think of that enormous ferocity, that dynamic truculence, doing its best to destroy you in a space twenty-four feet square. Let the challenger wait till G’rilla put his fighting face on—fair terrifyin’. Not an Artilleryman but felt sure that the garrison-gunner would successfully defend the title and “give the swankin’ Queen’s Greys something to keep them _choop_[25] for a bit. Gettin’ above ’emselves they was, becos’ this bloke of theirs had won Best Man-at-Arms and had the nerve to challenge G’rilla Dowdall, R.G.A.” [25] Silent. Even the R.H.A. admitted the R.G.A. to terms of perfect equality on that great occasion. But a few observant and experienced officers, gymnasium instructors, and ancient followers of the Noble Art were not so sure. “Put steel-and-whalebone against granite and I back the former,” said Major Decoulis to Colonel Hanking; “other things being equal of course—skill and ring-craft. And I hear that No. 2—the Queen’s Greys’ man—is unusually fast for a heavy-weight.” “I’d like to see him win,” admitted the Colonel. “The man looks a gentleman. _Doesn’t_ the other look a Bill Sykes, by Jove!” The Staff Sergeant Instructor of the Motipur Gymnasium stepped into the ring. “Silence, please,” he bawled. “Fifteen-round contest between Corporal Dowdall, 111th Battery, Royal Garrison Artillery, Heavy-Weight Champion of Hindia, fourteen twelve (Number 1—on my right ’and) and Trooper Matthewson, Queen’s Greys, fourteen stun (Number 2—on my left ’and). Please keep silence durin’ the rounds. The winner is Heavy-Weight Champion of Hindia, winner of the Motipur Cup and ’older of the Elliott Belt. All ready there?” Both combatants were ready. “Come here, both of you,” said the referee. As he arose to obey, Dam was irresistibly reminded of his fight with Bully Harberth and smiled. “Nervous sort o’ grin on the figger-’ead o’ the smaller wessel, don’t it,” observed Seaman Smith. “There wouldn’t be no grin on _your_ fat face at all,” returned Seaman Jones. “It wouldn’t be there. You’d be full-steam-ahead, bearings ’eated, and showin’ no lights, for them tents—when you see wot you was up against.”