Another gentleman, with face similarly marred, but with Seven Dials as his nesting place, is posted opposite to befriend the Terror. There is much buzz in the audience--a rude gathering, it is--and a deal of sympathetic admiration and not a ray of hope for Mike in the eyes of those present. The Terror is replete of a riotous confidence and savage to begin. For two nights, such is the awe of him engendered among local bruisers, no one has presented himself for a meeting. This has made the Terror hungry for a battle; he feels like a bear unfed. As he stands over from Mike awaiting the call of “Time,” he looks formidable and forbidding, with his knotted arms and mighty hands. Mike lounges in his place, the perfection of the athlete and picture of grace with power. His face, full of vacant amiability, shows pleased and interested as he looks out on the crowded, rampant house. Mike has rather the air of a spectator than a principal. The crowd does not shake him; he is not disturbed by the situation. In a fashion, he has been through the same thing every night, save Sunday, for three years. It comes commonplace enough to Mike. In a blurred way Mike resents the blood-eagerness which glows in the eyes of his enemy; but he knows no fear. It serves to remind him, however, that no restraints are laid upon him in favor of the brute across the ring, and that he is at liberty to hit with what lust he will. “Time!” suddenly calls the referee. Those who entertained a forbode of trouble ahead for Mike are agreeably surprised. With the word “Time!” Mike springs into tremendous life like a panther aroused. His dark eyes glow and gleam in a manner to daunt. The Terror, a gallant headlong ruffian, throws himself upon Mike like a tornado. For full two minutes his blows fall like a storm. It does not seem of things possible that man could last through such a tempest. But Mike lasts; more than that, every blow of the Terror is stopped or avoided. It runs off like a miracle to the onlookers, most of whom know somewhat of self-defensive arts. That Mike makes no reprisals, essays no counterhits, does not surprise. A cautious wisdom would teach him to feel out and learn his man. Moreover, Mike is not there to attack; his mere mission is to stay four rounds. While spectators, with approving comment on Mike’s skill and quickness, are reminding one another that Mike’s business is “simply to stay,” Mike himself is coming to a different thought. He has grown disgusted rather than enraged by the attacks of the Terror. His thrice-trained eye notes each detail of what moves as a whirlwind to folk looking on; his arm and foot provide automatically for his defense and without direct effort of the brain. This leaves Mike’s mind, dull as it is, with nothing to engage itself about save a contemplation of the Terror. In sluggish sort Mike begins to hold a vast dislike for that furious person.