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Ye'd have made a splendid middle-weight." "Well, have I a chance, do you think?" inquired Trevor. "Ye might do it with luck," said O'Hara, very doubtfully. "But," he added, "I'm afraid ye've not much chance." And with this poor encouragement from his trainer and sparring-partner, Trevor was forced to be content.
"I riverince the man, for there's few can beat him sober. Knocked Patsy into hospital an' him foightin' dhrunk! Faith, he must be another Oirish gintleman himself, indade." "He's a Scotchman and was middle-weight champion of India last year," rejoined Dam, and moistened his block of pipe-clay again in the most obvious, if least genteel, way.
"And what are you going to do about Rand-Brown?" "Fight him, of course. What else could I do?" "But you're no match for him." "We'll see." "But you aren't," persisted Clowes. "He can give you a stone easily, and he's not a bad boxer either. Moriarty didn't beat him so very cheaply in the middle-weight this year. You wouldn't have a chance." Trevor flared up.
But before he was a saint he had a wild heart, had Harry. You have but to look at him to know that. Have you forgotten that he has not always lived in these mountains? Do you not recall that he was middle-weight champion of Cape Colony, that he was a scout all through the Boer war? That he also saw service in India and has certain decorations to show for it? Saint Harry! ha, ha, ha!
It was a battle royal, and the Indiarubber Man, interned on the aft-deck, yelped encouragement to his erstwhile conquerors because they were fighting valiantly against hopeless odds. A Rugby International and a middle-weight boxer of some pretensions, although hampered by aiguilettes and outnumbered six to one, were not easily disposed of.
Oh! the humiliating position for an amateur middle-weight champion to find himself in, with that drink-sodden Kennard was sure that he was drink-sodden consumptive sprawling on the top of him! "Don't trouble, citizen Desmonts," the wretch cried out after his retreating companions. "I have what I want by me." Very leisurely he pulled a coil of rope out of the capacious pocket of his tattered coat.
These blessed works are knocking the stuffing out of you and spoiling your temper. Are you coming to the 'smoker' at 'The Tiger' next month?" "No." "Well, do. You want bucking. It'll be a bit out of the common. Jack Buckler's training at 'The Tiger' for his match with Solly Blades. You know eliminating round for middle-weight championship.
Imagine a sweet girl, who for years had been under the eagle eye of a middle-weight chaperon, suddenly espying in the moonlight a disguised man under the window on horseback, in the act of asking her to join him for a few weeks at his shooting-box in the swamp.
Mathilde murmured to Pete: "Who are they talking about?" "A mixture of Alcibiades and Bill Sykes," said Adelaide, catching the low tone, as she always did. "He's the district leader and a very bad influence," said Mrs. Wayne. "He's a champion middle-weight boxer," said Pete. "He's the head of my stevedores," said Farron. "O Mr. Farron," Mrs.
Biff Bates, ex-champion middle-weight, to these imported artists, but, very much to his surprise, Signorina Caravaggio and Professor Bates struck up an instant and animated conversation anent Biff's well-known and justly-famous victory over Slammer Young, and so interested did they become in this conversation that instead of Biff's sitting up in the front seat, as Bobby had intended, the eminent instructor of athletics manoeuvered the Herr Professor into that post of honor and climbed into the tonneau with Signor Ricardo and the Signorina, with the latter of whom he talked most volubly all the way over, to the evidently vast annoyance of Der Grosse Tenore.
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