But the Master's naturally morose temper became more and more murderous
at this postponement of his hopes. Three rounds ago the battle had been
in his hands; now it was all to do over again. Round by round his man
was recovering his strength. By the fifteenth he was strong again in
wind and limb. But the vigilant Anastasia saw something which
encouraged her.
"That bash in t' ribs is telling on him, Jock," she whispered.
"Why else should he be gulping t' brandy? Go in, lad, and thou hast him
yet."
Montgomery had suddenly taken the flask from Barton's hand, and had a
deep pull at the contents. Then, with his face a little flushed, and
with a curious look of purpose, which made the referee stare hard at
him, in his eyes, he rose for the sixteenth round.
"Game as a pairtridge!" cried the publican, as he looked at the hard-set
face.
"Mix it oop, lad! Mix it oop!" cried the iron-men to their Master.
And then a hum of exultation ran through their ranks as they realised
that their tougher, harder, stronger man held the vantage, after all.
Neither of the men showed much sign of punishment. Small gloves crush
and numb, but they do not cut. One of the Master's eyes was even more
flush with his cheek than Nature had made it. Montgomery had two or
three livid marks upon his body, and his face was haggard, save for that
pink spot which the brandy had brought into either cheek.
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