Did he see a foot obtruding itself so much as an inch over the mark in the sand--and the pressure from the crowd behind was so great that it was difficult for the front fellows to keep off the line--his heavy club and a blasting curse would fall upon the offender simultaneously.
Every effort was made to have all things conform as nearly as possible to the recognized practices of the "London Prize Ring." At Bradley's call of "Time!" the principals would rise from their seconds' knees, advance briskly to the scratch across the center of the ring, and spar away sharply for a little time, until one got in a blow that sent the other to the ground, where he would lie until his second picked him up, carried him back, washed his face off, and gave him a drink.

He then rested until the next call of time.
This sort of performance went on for an hour or more, with the knockdowns and other casualities pretty evenly divided between the two.

Then it became apparent that the Infant was getting more than he had storage room for.

His interest in the skillet was evidently abating, the leering grin he wore upon his face during the early part of the engagement had disappeared long ago, as the successive "hot ones" which the Chicken had succeeded in planting upon his mouth, put it out of his power to "smile and smile," "e'en though he might still be a villain." He began coming up to the scratch as sluggishly as a hired man starting out for his day's work, and finally he did not come up at all.

A bunch of blood soaked rags was tossed into the air from his corner, and Bradley declared the Chicken to be the victor, amid enthusiastic cheers from the crowd.
We voted the thing rather tame.