Lydia shuddered again.
"Bob Mellish," said Skene, "I'll lay you twenty to one he stops that
rush that you think so much of. Come: twenty to one!"
Mellish shook his head. Then the master of the ceremonies, pointing
to the men in succession, shouted, "Paradise: a professor. Cashel
Byron: a professor. Time!"
Cashel now looked at Paradise, of whose existence he had not before
seemed to be aware. The two men advanced towards the centre of the
ring, shook hands at arm's-length, cast off each other's grasp
suddenly, fell back a step, and began to move warily round one
another from left to right like a pair of panthers.
"I think they might learn manners from the gentlemen, and shake
hands cordially," said Alice, trying to appear unconcerned, but
oppressed by a vague dread of Cashel.
"That's the traditional manner," said Lord Worthington. "It is done
that way to prevent one from holding the other; pulling him over,
and hitting him with the disengaged hand before he could get loose."
"What abominable treachery!" exclaimed Lydia.
"It's never done, you know," said Lord Worthington, apologetically.
"Only it might be."
Lydia turned away from him, and gave all her attention to the
boxers.
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