of their escouade. Carmelita, a brilliant spot of colour glowing on either cheek, busied herself about her duties, flitting like a butterfly from table to table. Never had she appeared more light-hearted, gay, and insouciante. But to John Bull, who watched her anxiously, it was clear that her gaiety was feverish and hectic, her laughter forced and hysterical.
"Reckon 'e's got an earthly, matey?" asked 'Erb of Rupert. "’E'll 'ave ter scrag an' kick, same as Rivoli, if 'e don't want ter be counted aht."
"I'd give a hundred pounds to see him win, anyhow," was the reply. "I expect he'll fight the brute with his own weapons. He'll go in for what he calls 'rough-housing' I hope.… No good following Amateur Boxing Association rules if you're fighting a bear, or a Zulu, or a Fuzzy-wuzzy, or Luigi Rivoli.…"
And that was precisely the intention of the American, whose fighting had been learnt in a very rough and varied school. When earning his living as a professional boxer, he had given referees no more than the average amount of trouble; and in the ring, against a clean fighter, had put up a clean fight. A tricky opponent, resorting to fouls, had always found him able to respond with very satisfying tricks of his own—"and then some." But the Bucking Bronco had also done much mixed fighting as a hobo[1] with husky and adequate bulls[2] in many of the towns of the free and glorious United States of America, when guilty of having no visible means of support; with exasperated and homicidal shacks[3] on most of that proud country's railways, when "holding her down," and frustrating their endeavours to make him "hit the grit"; with
