aid to his general
downiness, flyness, and ring-craft,--the last of which, for Corporal
Dowdall, included every form of foul that a weak referee would pass,
an inexperienced one misunderstand, or a lazy one miss. Major
O'Halloran, first-class bruiser himself, was in the habit of doing his
refereeing inside the ring and within a foot or two of the principals,
where he expected foul play.

As the Major cautioned the Gorilla, Dam passed his hand wearily across
his face, swallowed once or twice and groaned aloud.

It was _not_ fair. Why should the Snake be allowed to humiliate him
before thousands of spectators? Why should It be brought here to shame
him in the utmost publicity, to make him fail his comrades, disgrace
his regiment, make the Queen's Greys a laughing-stock?

But--he had fought an emissary of the Snake before--and he had won.
This villainous-looking pugilist was perhaps _the Snake Itself in
human form_--and, see, he was free, he was in God's open air, no
chains bound him, he was not gagged, this place was not a pit dug
beneath the Pit itself! This was all tangible and real. He would have
fair play and be able to defend himself. This was not a blue room
with a mud floor. Nay, he would be able to attack--to fight, fight
like a wounded pantheress for her cubs. This accursed Snake in Human
Form would only be able to use puny fists. Mere trivial human fists
and human strength. Everything would be on the human plane. It would
be unable to wrap him in its awful coils and crush and crush the soul
and life and manhood out of him, as it did at night before burrowing
its way ten million miles below the floor of Hell with him, and
immuring him in a molten incandescent tomb where he could not even
scream or writhe.

"Get to your corners," said the referee, and Dam returned to his place
with a cruel smile upon his compressed lips. By the Merciful Living
God he had the Snake Itself delivered unto him in human form--to do
with as he could. Oh, that It might last out the fifteen times of
facing him in his wrath, his pent-up vengeful wrath at a ruined life,
a dishonoured name and _a lost Lucille!_

When would they give the word for him to spring upon it and batter it
lifeless to the ground?

"Don't grind yer silly teeth like that," whispered Hawker, his grim
ugly face white with anxiety and suspense (for he loved Damocles de
Warrenne as the faithfullest of hounds loves the best of masters).
"You're awastin' henergy all