"Spyin' on us, wasn't you?" demanded Nigger, edging nearer to Malcolm Sage.
"It's ten minutes past four," remarked Malcolm Sage coolly, as he glanced at his wrist-watch.
"Oh, it is, is it?" was the retort, "and in another hour it'll be ten minutes past five."
"I have to be back at my office by half-past four." Malcolm Sage looked about for some receptacle in which to throw the spent match.
"You don't say so." Again Nigger edged a little nearer; but Malcolm Sage appeared not to notice it.
"Well, I may as well tell you that you don't leave here until eleven o'clock to-morrow night, see?"
There were murmurs of approval from the others.
"Then, perhaps, you will send out and buy me a tooth-brush," was Malcolm Sage's quiet rejoinder.
CHAPTER XVI THE GREAT FIGHT AT THE OLYMPIA
Never had the Olympia seen such a crowd as was gathered to watch the fight between Charley Burns of England and Joe Jefferson of America, Never in its career of hybrid ugliness had it witnessed such excitement.
For thirty-six hours the wildest rumours had been current. Charley Burns had broken down, run away, committed suicide, and refused to fight. He had broken a leg, an arm, a finger, and had torn more tendons than he possessed. He had sprained ankles, wrung withers, been overtrained, had contracted every known disease in addition to manifesting a yellow streak.
The atmosphere was electrical. The spectators whispered among themselves, exchanging views and rumours. The most fantastical stories were related, credited, and debated with gravity and concern.
If some ill-advised optimist ventured to question a particularly lugubrious statement, he was challenged to explain the betting, which had crept up to six to one on Jefferson offered, with no takers.
The arrival of the Prince of Wales gave a welcome vent for pent-up excitement. Accustomed as he was to enthusiastic acclamation, the Prince seemed a little embarrassed by the warmth and intensity of his greeting.
The preliminary bouts ran their course, of interest only to those immediately concerned, who were more truly alone in the midst of that vast concourse than some anchorite in the desert of Sahara.
The heat was unbearable, the atmosphere suffocating. Men smoked their cigars and cigarettes jerkily, now indulging in a series of staccatoed puffs, now ignoring them until they went out.