Kit had it this time.
Attacking Ben's peepers, he was bent on defending his own, and he caught a bodyblow that sent him hopping back to his pair of seconds, five clear hops to the rear, like a smashed surge-wave off the rock.

He was respectful for the remainder of the round.

But hammering at the system he had formed, in the very next round he dropped from a tremendous repetition of the blow, and lay flat as a turbot.

The bets against him had simultaneously a see-saw rise.
'Bellows, he appears to have none,' was the comment of Chumley Potts.
'Now for training, Chummy!' said Lord Fleetwood.
'Chummy!' signifying a crow over Potts, rang out of the hollows of Captain Abrane on Lord Brailstone's coach.
Carinthia put a hand behind her to Madge.

It was grasped, in gratitude for sympathy or in feminine politeness.