Tony pulled up at this mark of Royal recognition and shook hands with the Marquis and his monarch. It was understood that on such occasions as the present the ex-king preferred to be regarded as an ordinary member of the Club. "Everything is good I hope," he observed to Tony. "Your man he is up to the scratch--eh?" He spoke English confidently, but with a marked foreign accent. "Rather," said Tony. "Never been fitter in his life. No excuses if we're beaten." Da Freitas blew out a philosophic puff of smoke. "Ah, Sir Antony," he observed, "that is one of your national virtues. You are good losers, you English. Perhaps you do not feel defeat as deeply as Southerners." "Perhaps not," admitted Tony cheerfully. "Anyhow, it's not much good making a song about things, is it? One's bound to strike a snag occasionally." The Marquis nodded. "In Livadia," he said softly, "we do not like to be beaten. We----" There was a loud _tang_ from the gong and the two boxers sprang up out of their respective corners to resume the fight. With a gesture of apology Tony moved along to his seat, where he found himself next to "Doggy" Donaldson, who was discharging his customary rôle of Master of the Ceremonies. He welcomed Tony with a grip of the hand. "Glad you've turned up," he said. "I never feel really happy till both parties are in the Club. All serene?" "As far as we're concerned," replied Tony. Donaldson rubbed his hands. "That's good," he observed contentedly. "We'll have 'em in the ring by nine-thirty at latest. That'll just give us time to--Hullo! Look at that! Damned if Young Alf isn't chucking it." One of the two contesting youths had suddenly stepped back and held out his hand to his opponent. He had just received a severe dig in the stomach, which had apparently convinced him for the moment that boxing was an unfriendly and over-rated amusement. With a grunt of disgust at such pusillanimity Donaldson clambered up into the ring, and in a stentorian voice announced the name of the winner. He then introduced two more lithe-limbed active-looking lads, who promptly set about the task of punching each other's heads with refreshing accuracy and vigour. It was about a quarter-past nine when this bout came to an end, and preparations were begun for the principal event. Two buckets of clean water were brought in, and a large cardboard box containing a couple of new pairs of boxing-gloves was deposited in the centre of the ring. Then, while a truculent looking gentleman in flannel trousers and a sweater strolled about crushing lumps of resin beneath his feet, Doggy Donaldson again hoisted himself into the roped square, and held up his hand for silence. "Gentlemen," he said, "I have the pleasure to announce that the Committee has decided to match the winner of to-night's contest against Jack Rivers, the holder of the Lonsdale Welter Weight Belt."