Mr. Armitage, the portly butcher, made his way into the ring and held up
two fat hands, sparkling with rings, as a signal for silence.
"Gentlemen!" he yelled. And then in a crescendo shriek, "Gentlemen!"
"And ladies!" cried somebody, for, indeed, there was a fair sprinkling
of women among the crowd. "Speak up, owd man!" shouted another. "What
price pork chops?" cried somebody at the back. Everybody laughed, and
the dogs began to bark. Armitage waved his hands amidst the uproar as
if he were conducting an orchestra. At last the babel thinned into
silence.
"Gentlemen," he yelled, "the match is between Silas Craggs, whom we
call the Master of Croxley, and Robert Montgomery, of the Wilson
Coal-pits. The match was to be under eleven-eight. When they were
weighed just now, Craggs weighed eleven-seven, and Montgomery ten-nine.
The conditions of the contest are--the best of twenty three-minute
rounds with two-ounce gloves. Should the fight run to its full length,
it will, of course, be decided upon points. Mr. Stapleton, the
well-known London referee, has kindly consented to see fair play.
I wish to say that Mr. Wilson and I, the chief backers of the two men,
have every confidence in Mr. Stapleton, and that we beg that you will
accept his rulings without dispute.
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