All eyes were directed towards the spot where the combatants would
appear.

The referee turned expectantly in the same direction. A group of men
in flannels and sweaters was seen moving towards the ring. Among
them was a sleek, dark-haired man in a long dressing-gown of bottle
green. It was Joe Jefferson.

Suddenly a great roar burst out, echoing and reechoing continuously
as the group approached the ring and Jefferson climbed through the
ropes.

Then came another hush. A second group of men was observed
approaching the ring. There was a shout as those nearest recognised
Alf Pond among them. It developed into a roar, then died away as if
strangled, giving place to a hum of suppressed inquiry. Everyone was
either asking, or looking, the same question.

"Where is Burns?"

Alf Pond and his associates moved to the ringside as if bound for a
funeral.

Their gloom seemed suddenly to pervade the whole vast concourse. Men
talked to one another mechanically, their eyes fixed upon the group.

There was a strange hush. The men reached the ringside and stood
looking at one another. The audience looked at them. What had
happened?

None seemed to notice three men moving down the opposite gangway
towards the ring. The man in the centre was muffled in a heavy
overcoat that reached to his heels, a soft felt hat was pulled down
over his eyes. One or two spectators in their immediate
neighbourhood gave them a hasty, curious glance.

Suddenly Alf Pond gave a wild whoop and, breaking away from his
fellows, dashed towards the three strangers. In a moment the
overcoat and muffler were thrown aside and the hat knocked off,
revealing the fair-haired and smiling Charley Burns.

Gripping Burns's hand, Alf Pond broke down. Tears streamed down his
battle-seared features, and he sobbed with the choking agony of a
strong man.

Then suddenly everything became enveloped in a dense volume of sound.
Men and women stood on their chairs and waved frantically, madly,
anything they could clutch hold of to wave. The whole Olympia
appeared to have gone mad. Noble peers, grave judges, sedate
generals and austere philosophers acted as if suddenly bereft of the
restaining influences of civilisation and decorum.

Hugged and fondled by his seconds, Burns reached the ring and
climbed into it. The black cardboard box was opened, the men's hands
bandaged, the gloves donned. Still the pandemonium raged, now dying
down, now bursting out again with