ing Paddy Leary are introduced, a bell rings—and the panic is on!
I'll never forget that first round, and Grenadier Tompkins will never forget the second. Honestly, for three minutes the champion did everything to poor Fighting Paddy Leary but stick a knife in him, and I sat on the edge of my seat biting my lips and seeing again through moist eyes this burly Englishman battering Delancey Gregory aboard the ship. Fighting Paddy hit the floor either eight or twenty-seven times, and according to the screaming Mr. Daft and the rest of our countrymen present most of the blows that put him there were exceedingly foul. Even some of the Englishmen sitting around us were saying in conversational tones, "I say, fight fair, Grenadier!" or "Mister Referee, that was a bit low!" Twice Fighting Paddy stopped falling long enough to file personal complaints with the referee, but he got no service at all!
When Paddy staggered to his corner at the end of the first round, really, he looked like the wreck of the Hesperus. His seconds worked over him frantically, while the Americans kept up a continual din, mostly howls at the referee, who paid not the slightest attention. In the midst of this confusion I happened to glance at the royal box in time to see the Prince whisper to one of his companions. The man nodded, bowed,
