They shook hands unsmiling, and began to circle cautiously, sparring for an opening. Then Harcourt led. It was a stinging blow and it landed fair enough. Billy took it, and several more; for a moment it looked as if he had shot his bolt. Then he seemed suddenly to gather all his tiring strength. He feinted and hit lightly with his left. Harcourt blocked it, then unexpectedly lowered his guard; a little mocking smile flitted over his blood-smeared face. Billy's right came in with every ounce of muscle and sinew in his body to back the jolt, and it landed fair on the point of that flaunting chin so temptingly offered. It seemed to Billy that Harcourt disappeared into a mist. There was a thud and a great roar of voices and the sounds of clapping. "Stand back!" said a warning voice at the ring-side, and somewhere, apparently in the distance, another voice was counting the deliberate seconds: "... Five! Six! Seven!" The angry mist cleared away and revealed Harcourt sprawling on the ground. He was leaning over on both hands, striving gallantly to rise. "... Eight! Nine!" The white figure with the green sash was on hands and knees, swaying---- The gong rang. Down and out! The referee glanced from one judge to the other and raised a little red flag from the table. "Red wins!" he shouted. Unconscious of the deafening applause Billy bent down and slipped an arm under his friend's shoulders. All the savage fighting blood in him had suddenly cooled, and there was only pity and love for Harcourt in his heart as he helped him to his feet. Harcourt's seconds had rushed into the ring as the gong rang, and they now supported him to his corner. At his feeble request one unlaced the glove from his right hand, which he extended to his late adversary with a wan smile. "That was a good 'un, Billy," he said faintly. "My--head's--still singing ... like a top! And--I taught it to you! ..." * * * * The distribution of prizes to the winners of the different weights followed, and then the great gathering broke up. The Admirals departed with their staffs in their respective barges, the Captains in their galleys, Wardroom and Gunroom officers in the picket-boats. Figures paced up and down the quarterdeck talking together in pairs; farewells sounded at the gangways, and the hoot of the steamboats' syrens astern mingled with the ceaseless calling of the gulls overhead. Harcourt and Mordaunt, descending the accommodation ladder in the rear of the remainder of their party, were greeted by Morton, at the wheel of the picket-boat, with a broad grin. "Come on," he ejaculated impatiently. "Hop in! We've got to get back and be hoisted in. Who won the Light-weights by the same token?" "Billy did," replied Harcourt. He settled himself comfortably on top of the cabin of the picket boat and pulled up the collar of his greatcoat about his face. Morton jerked the engine-room telegraph and the boat moved off.