"
"Just bide a bit!" growled the Master.
"Don't talk--fight!" said the referee, angrily.
Montgomery rubbed in the point by a flush hit upon the mouth, and the
Master shambled back to his corner like an angry bear, having had all
the worst of the round.
"Where's thot seven to one?" shouted Purvis, the publican. "I'll take
six to one!"
There were no answers.
"Five to one!"
There were givers at that. Purvis booked them in a tattered notebook.
Montgomery began to feel happy. He lay back with his legs outstretched,
his back against the corner-post, and one gloved hand upon each rope.
What a delicious minute it was between each round. If he could only
keep out of harm's way, he must surely wear this man out before the end
of twenty rounds. He was so slow that all his strength went for
nothing.
"You're fightin' a winnin' fight--a winnin' fight," Ted Barton whispered
in his ear. "Go canny; tak' no chances; you have him proper."
But the Master was crafty. He had fought so many battles with his
maimed limb that he knew how to make the best of it. Warily and slowly
he manoeuvred round Montgomery, stepping forward and yet again forward
until he had imperceptibly backed him into his corner. The student
suddenly saw a flash of triumph upon the grim face, and a gleam in the
dull, malignant eyes.
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