look close to see what the
new boy is made of, and how he works his left. But the unknowing regard
the size of their Culver, and prophesy fast and furiously.

Then do these two circle slowly round the tapes, attempting nothing
great, but, by feint and parry, seeking each to unmask his man and
discover where he is weak and where strong. The unknowing ones and
Gosse murmur, and cry on their man to let out. And he, irresolute a
moment, yields, and standing drives at his foeman's head. Up goes the
right of Basil the son of Richard, and behold while all cry "a parry!"
in goes his left, quick as a flash, and grazes the chin of the solid
Culver.

Whereat the ring well-nigh breaks with applause, and the knowing ones
nod one at another, and Heathcote leaps for joy and beams like the sun
at mid-day as his hero returns to his knees and girds himself for the
second round.

Birket looks up at the clock and groans to see five minutes gone.
Gosse, too, groans as his man steps forward once more, unsteady and
amazed at what had befallen him. "Hit low!" he whispers.

And now, once more, dead silence falls upon the ring, and all eyes turn
to where Dick steps lightly up and meets his man. All mark the laugh in
his eye, but the knowing ones like it not.

"Steady," says Birket; "don't be too sure."

But Basil the son of Richard heeds him not, and his eyes laugh still.
This time, not Culver, but he is the pursuer, and the unknowing ones
quake for their hero. Yet Culver stands as he stood before and deals
his blow. Once more the new boy parries and drives home with his left.
But, alas! Culver is ready for him, while he, unprepared, with his
right still up, receives the fist of Culver on his chest. And the echo
falls upon the ring like distant thunder.

Where, now, is the laughter in Basil's eyes, or who can see the sunlight
on Heathcote's troubled face? Who now nod their heads but the unknowing
ones? and who looks grave but Birket?

As when a mountain torrent rushes down its bed with huge uproar until it
meet a fiercer, leaping headlong from the cliff, and drowning the lesser
din with a greater, so do the shouts for Basil the son of Richard, grow
faint beneath the shouts that rise for Culver, the large of bone. Nor
when "time" is called, and from the trembling knees of their seconds
those two arise and stalk into the ring, does the clamour cease, till
Birket, with his eye on the clock, breathes threatenings and demands it.