its object, pugilism. His firm chest was compact, and brown and shining

like brass. He smiled, and three teeth which he had lost added to his

smile.

His adversary was tall and overgrown--that is to say, weak.

He was a man of forty years of age, six feet high, with the chest of a

hippopotamus, and a mild expression of face. The blow of his fist would

break in the deck of a vessel, but he did not know how to use it.

The Irishman, Phelem-ghe-Madone, was all surface, and seemed to have

entered the ring to receive rather than to give blows. Only it was felt

that he would take a deal of punishment. Like underdone beef, tough to

chew, and impossible to swallow. He was what was termed, in local slang,

raw meat. He squinted. He seemed resigned.

The two men had passed the preceding night in the same bed, and had

slept together. They had each drunk port wine from the same glass, to

the three-inch mark.

Each had his group of seconds--men of savage expression, threatening the

umpires when it suited their side. Amongst Helmsgail's supporters was to

be seen John Gromane, celebrated for having carried an ox on his back;

and one called John Bray, who had once carried on his back ten bushels

of flour, at fifteen pecks to the bushel, besides the miller himself,

and had walked over two hundred paces under the weight. On the side of

Phelem-ghe-Madone, Lord Hyde had brought from Launceston a certain

389

The Man Who Laughs