It was the tenth round, and the fight was half over. The betting now
was only three to one, for the Wilson champion had held his own much
better than had been expected. But those who knew the ring-craft as
well as the staying power of the old prize-fighter knew that the odds
were still a long way in his favour.
"Have a care of him!" whispered Barton, as he sent his man up to the
scratch. "Have a care! He'll play thee a trick, if he can."
But Montgomery saw, or imagined he saw, that his antagonist was tiring.
He looked jaded and listless, and his hands drooped a little from their
position. His own youth and condition were beginning to tell.
He sprang in and brought off a fine left-handed lead. The Master's
return lacked his usual fire. Again Montgomery led, and again he got
home. Then he tried his right upon the mark, and the Master guarded it
downwards.
"Too low! Too low! A foul! A foul!" yelled a thousand voices.
The referee rolled his sardonic eyes slowly round. "Seems to me this
buildin' is chock-full of referees," said he. The people laughed and
applauded, but their favour was as immaterial to him as their anger.
"No applause, please! This is not a theatre!" he yelled.
Montgomery was very pleased with himself. His adversary was evidently
in a bad way.
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