Lydia, for the first
time in her life, screamed. Then she saw Cashel, his face fully as
fierce as Paradise's, get his arm about his neck; lift him as a
coal-heaver lifts a sack, and fling him over his back, heels over
head, to the ground, where he instantly dropped on him with his
utmost weight and impetus. The two were at once separated by a crowd
of managers, umpires, policemen, and others who had rushed towards
the ring when Paradise had taken off his gloves. A distracting
wrangle followed. Skene had climbed over the palisade, and was
hurling oaths, threats, and epithets at Paradise, who, unable to
stand without assistance, was trying to lift his leaden eyelids and
realize what had happened to him. A dozen others were trying to bring
him to his senses, remonstrating with him on his conduct, or trying to
pacify Skene. Cashel, on the other side, raged at the managers, who
were reminding him that the rules of glove-fighting did not allow
wrestling and throwing.
"Rules be d---d," Lydia heard him shouting. "He bit me; and I'll
throw him to--" Then everybody spoke at once; and she could only
conjecture where he would throw him to. He seemed to have no
self-control: Paradise, when he came to himself, behaved better.
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