Then there was a sound of bolts being withdrawn, and the barman opened the gate that led into the yard. It was quite small, paved with cobbles, and surrounded by high brick walls: scarcely the place that I should have selected for a fight unless I felt very certain that I was going to win. The barman closed the gate, and we all ranged ourselves round the walls, while he and the navvy removed their superfluous clothing and took up their positions in opposite corners. George, who is a bit of a sportsman, volunteered to act as timekeeper. There was a moment of almost breathless silence and then he gave the word: "Time!" The barman took three quick steps forward, and planted himself firmly in the centre of the ring. In another second the navvy was upon him--head down and hitting like a flail. There was a gorgeous whirl of arms, a couple of sharp smacking blows, and the navvy suddenly sat down with his hand to his eye, while the little man danced away apparently uninjured. Two or three of the fallen warrior's companions advanced and set him upon his feet. "Go fur 'is wind, Bill," suggested one. "Stand orf an' fight 'im clever," added another. "Close wiv 'im," said a third. The navvy drew the back of his hand across his face and shoved them roughly aside. "I'll kill 'im afore I done with 'im," he muttered. His friends retreated to the wall, and the two men faced each other again. This time it was the barman's turn to attack. Without a moment's hesitation he waltzed in, and, ducking a terrific swing, landed a straight left on his opponent's nose that brought a roar of mingled anguish and fury from its owner's lips. Whether it was the pain, or whether the blood of some forgotten French ancestor was stirring in his veins, I cannot say, but the navvy now threw aside all pretensions to following the rules of the ring, and, rushing forward kicked at his enemy with all the force of which he was capable. My heart seemed to jump into my mouth for I felt certain that the barman's hour had come. The navvy's boot looked as if it were capable of opening the door for any soul in England. With a brilliant effort, however, the barman leaped on one side, and, using his right hand for the first time in the fight, smote the navvy a deadly blow across his disfigured countenance that stretched him upon the yard and abruptly terminated the struggle. George counted him out with all the dignity of a professional timekeeper, but he made no effort to rise, for the barman stood over him, waiting to rebuke him for his attempted treachery. Then he began to roll about as though in great pain. "Brandy!" he moaned feebly. "Gimme some brandy!"