But Montgomery was too cool to fall a victim to any of those murderous
upper-cuts. He kept out of harm's way with a rigid guard, an active
foot, and a head which was swift to duck. And yet he contrived to
present the same appearance of a man who is hopelessly done. The
Master, weary from his own shower of blows, and fearing nothing from so
weak a man, dropped his hand for an instant, and at that instant
Montgomery's right came home.
It was a magnificent blow, straight, clean, crisp, with the force of the
loins and the back behind it. And it landed where he had meant it to--
upon the exact point of that blue-grained chin. Flesh and blood could
not stand such a blow in such a place. Neither valour nor hardihood can
save the man to whom it comes. The Master fell backwards, flat,
prostrate, striking the ground with so simultaneous a clap that it was
like a shutter falling from a wall. A yell, which no referee could
control, broke from the crowded benches as the giant went down. He lay
upon his back, his knees a little drawn up, his huge chest panting.
He twitched and shook, but could not move. His feet pawed convulsively
once or twice. It was no use. He was done. "Eight--nine--ten!" said
the time-keeper, and the roar of a thousand voices, with a deafening
clap like the broad-side of a ship, told that the Master of Croxley was
the Master no more.
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