“As you will. You shall have one round, you'll want no more.” The young men looked badly matched. Ross, in riding-breeches and shirt, with red bullet head and sprawling feet, arms like an oak and veins like willow boughs. Philip in shirt and knickerbockers, with long fair hair, quivering face, and delicate figure. It was strength and some skill against nerve alone. Like a rush of wind Philip came on, striking right and left, and was driven back by a left-hand body-blow. “There, you've got it,” said Ross, smiling benignly. “Didn't I tell you? That's old Bristol Bull to begin with.” Philip rushed on again, and came back with a smashing blow that cut his nether lip. “You've got a second,” said Ross. “Have you had enough?” Philip did not hear, but sprang fiercely at Ross once more. The next instant he was on the ground. Then Ross took on a manner of utter contempt. “I can't keep on flipping at you all night.” “Mock me when you've beaten me,” said Philip, and he was on his feet again, somewhat blown, but fresh as to spirit and doggedly resolute. “Toe the scratch, then,” said Ross. “I must say you're good at your gruel.” Philip flung himself on his man a third time, and fell more heavily than before, under a flush hit that seemed to bury itself in his chest. “I can't go on fighting a man that's as good for nothing as my old grandmother,” said Ross. But his contempt was abating; he was growing uneasy; Philip was before him as fierce as ever. “Fight your equal,” he cried. “I'll fight you,” growled Philip. “You're not fit. Give it up. And look, the dark is falling.” “There's enough daylight yet. Come on.” “Nobody is here to shame you.” “Come on, I say.” Philip did not wait, but sprang on his man like a tiger. Ross met his blow, dodged, feinted; they gripped, swinging to and fro; there was a struggle, and Philip fell again with a dull thud against the ground. “Will you stop now?” said Ross. “No, no, no,” cried Philip, leaping to his feet. “I'll eat you up. I'm a glutton, I can tell you.” But his voice trembled, and Philip, blind with passion, laughed. “You'll be hurt,” said Ross. “What of that?” said Philip. “You'll be killed.” “I'm willing.” Ross tried to laugh mockingly, but the hoarse gurgle choked in his throat. He began to tremble. “This man doesn't know when he's mauled,” he muttered, and after a loud curse he stood up afresh, with a craven and shifty look. His blows fell like scorching missiles, but Philip took them like a rock scoured with shingle, raining blood like water, but standing firm. “What's the use?” cried Ross; “drop it.” “I'll drop myself first,” said Philip. “If you won't give it up, I will,” said Ross. “You shan't,” said Philip. “Take your victory if you like.” “I won't.” “Say you've licked me.” “I'll do it first,” said Philip.