A great shout from the assembled Englishmen followed this blow, and a counter-shout from the crowd of Dutchmen, who pointed triumphantly to the hole in the stout yellow-wood panel made by their champion’s fist, and asked who the madman was who dared to stand against him. The Boer turned and spat out some of his superfluous teeth, and at the same instant a young Englishman came and caught hold of Jeremy by the arm. “For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow, be careful! That man will kill you; he is the strongest man in the Transvaal. You are a fellow to be proud of, though!” “He may try,” said Jeremy laconically, stripping off his coat and waistcoat. “Will you hold these for me?” “Hold them?” answered the young fellow, who was a good sort; “ay, that I will, and I would give half I have to see you lick him. Dodge him; don’t let him strike you, or he will kill you. I saw him stun an ox once with a blow of his fist.” Jeremy smiled. “Stop,” he said. “Ask that coward, if I best him, if he will let off that miserable beggar?” and he pointed to the trembling Hottentot. The question was put, and the great man answered, “Yah, yah! I will make you a present of him!” ironically, and then expressed his intention of knocking Jeremy into small pieces in the course of the next two minutes. Then they faced one another. The giant was a trifle over six feet seven high; Jeremy was a trifle under six feet two and a half, and looked short beside him. But one or two critical observers, looking at the latter now that he was stripped for the encounter, shrewdly guessed that the Dutchman would have his work cut out. Jeremy did not, it is true, scale more than fourteen stone six, but his proportions were perfect. The great deep chest, the brawny arms—not very large, but a mass of muscle—the short strong neck, the quick eye, and massive leg, all bespoke the strength of a young Hercules. It was evident, too, that though he was so young, and not yet come to his full power, he was in the most perfect training. The Boer, on the other hand, was enormous, but his flesh was somewhat soft. Still, knowing his feats, the Englishmen present sighed for their champion, feeling that he had no chance. For a moment they stood facing each other; then Jeremy made a feint, and, getting in, planted a heavy blow with his left hand on his adversary’s chest. But he was to pay for it, for the next second the Dutchman got in his right hand, and Jeremy was lifted clean off his feet, and sent flying backwards among the crowd. The Boers cheered, the giant smiled, and the Englishmen looked sad. They knew how it would be. But Jeremy picked himself up little the worse. The stroke had struck the muscles of his chest, and had not hurt him greatly. As he advanced, the gradually increasing crowd of Englishmen cheered him warmly, and he swore in his heart that he would justify those cheers, or die for it. It was at this juncture that Ernest and Mr. Alston came up.