Montgomery stood half dazed, looking down at the huge, prostrate figure.
He could hardly realise that it was indeed all over. He saw the referee
motion towards him with his hand. He heard his name bellowed in triumph
from every side. And then he was aware of someone rushing towards him;
he caught a glimpse of a flushed face and an aureole of flying red hair,
a gloveless fist struck him between the eyes, and he was on his back in
the ring beside his antagonist, while a dozen of his supporters were
endeavouring to secure the frantic Anastasia. He heard the angry
shouting of the referee, the screaming of the furious woman, and the
cries of the mob. Then something seemed to break like an over-stretched
banjo string, and he sank into the deep, deep, mist-girt abyss of
unconsciousness.
The dressing was like a thing in a dream, and so was a vision of the
Master with the grin of a bulldog upon his face, and his three teeth
amiably protruded. He shook Montgomery heartily by the hand.
"I would have been rare pleased to shake thee by the throttle, lad, a
short while syne," said he. "But I bear no ill-feeling again' thee.
It was a rare poonch that brought me down--I have not had a better
since my second fight wi' Billy Edwards in '89. Happen thou might think
o' goin' further wi' this business.
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