In that dense mass of humanity, one could
hardly pick out individuals, but Montgomery's eyes caught the brazen
gleam of the helmets held upon the knees of the ten yeomen of his
escort. At the very edge of the platform sat the reporters, five of
them--three locals and two all the way from London. But where was the
all-important referee? There was no sign of him, unless he were in the
centre of that angry swirl of men near the door.
Mr. Stapleton had stopped to examine the gloves which wore to be used,
and entered the building after the combatants. He had started to come
down that narrow lane with the human walls which led to the ring.
But already it had gone abroad that the Wilson champion was a gentleman,
and that another gentleman had been appointed as referee. A wave of
suspicion passed through the Croxley folk. They would have one of their
own people for a referee. They would not have a stranger. His path was
stopped as he made for the ring. Excited men flung themselves in front
of him; they waved their fists in his face and cursed him. A woman
howled vile names in his ear. Somebody struck at him with an umbrella.
"Go thou back to Lunnon. We want noan o' thee. Go thou back!" they
yelled.
Stapleton, with his shiny hat cocked backwards, and his large, bulging
forehead swelling from under it, looked round him from beneath his bushy
brows.
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