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Updated: May 12, 2025
The two combatants stood for a few seconds motionless in the ring, whilst the watches were being compared. They then approached each other and shook hands. Phelem-ghe-Madone said to Helmsgail, "I should prefer going home." Helmsgail answered, handsomely, "The gentlemen must not be disappointed, on any account." Naked as they were, they felt the cold. Phelem-ghe-Madone shook. His teeth chattered.
His little opponent ran, struck, sprang, gnashed his teeth; redoubling vigour by quickness, from knowledge of the science. On the one side was the primitive blow of the fist savage, uncultivated, in a state of ignorance; on the other side, the civilized blow of the fist. Helmsgail fought as much with his nerves as with his muscles, and with as much intention as force.
The two champions were naked, excepting short breeches buckled over the hips, and spiked boots laced as high as the ankles. Helmsgail, the Scot, was a youth scarcely nineteen, but he had already had his forehead sewn up, for which reason they laid 2 1/3 to 1 on him. The month before he had broken the ribs and gouged out the eyes of a pugilist named Sixmileswater.
But the two umpires and the two seconds adhered to the rule. Yet it was exceedingly cold. First blood was claimed. They were again set face to face. They looked at each other, approached, stretched their arms, touched each other's fists, and then drew back. All at once, Helmsgail, the little man, sprang forward. The real fight had begun. Phelem-ghe-Madone was struck in the face, between the Ryes.
His whole face streamed with blood. The crowd cried, "Helmsgail has tapped his claret!" There was applause. Phelem-ghe-Madone, turning his arms like the sails of a windmill, struck out at random. The Honourable Peregrine Bertie said, "Blinded;" but he was not blind yet. Then Helmsgail heard on all sides these encouraging words, "Bung up his peepers!"
Goliaths are always vanquished by Davids. A hail of exclamations followed the combatants. "Bravo, Helmsgail! Good! Well done, Highlander! Now, Phelem!" And the friends of Helmsgail repeated their benevolent exhortation, "Bung up his peepers!" Helmsgail did better. Rapidly bending down and back again, with the undulation of a serpent, he struck Phelem-ghe-Madone in the sternum.
They laid sixteen and a quarter to one on Helmsgail. Harry Carleton cried out, "It is all over with Phelem-ghe-Madone. I will lay my peerage of Bella-aqua, and my title of Lord Bellew, against the Archbishop of Canterbury's old wig, on Helmsgail." "Give me your muzzle," said Kilter to Phelem-ghe-Madone. And stuffing the bloody flannel into the bottle, he washed him all over with gin.
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