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116 the Kilkhinny cats; let ’em chaw each other up, for the love av God!”

“That’s it. A ring—a ring!”

“They’ll save Jack Ketch his trouble.”

“A bonny brace!”

And that they were—Tom stripped to the waist, his nankeen trousers flecked with blood—his enemy foaming at the mouth, and struggling still in half-a-dozen brawny hands. Dips were lighted, the ring formed. Silence was then called, and something like it obtained, save for the innocent laughter of the lunatic in his corner, and the plaintive voice of the consumptive shut out on his mat.

“Let me see,” it quavered. “That’s no flat. That’s the best man above earth. Lend a mauley, old pals, and let a beggar see!”

So they dragged him out upon his mat, and made room for it and him, because he was too weak to rise. Ant in what ensued, his recumbent figure was the one that ought to have been watched, with eyeballs starting from their sunken sockets, and livid lips that tried so hard to cheer—when Tom spilt his man in the first round—and that failed so pitiably. But only Tom kept an eye on him; and so had it blacked through dropping his hands and darting to the pickpocket, who had fallen forward with the blood gushing from his mouth.

Tom got him in his arms, and pillowed the deathly head upon his naked chest. “Stand aside, lads,” cried. “The excitement—he’s going! Let the wardsman fetch help of some kind.”

The wardsman had been a weakly protesting part all that had happened; he was glad to get away.

The shrieking pandemonium was now silent as