“A what?” enquired Ravenslee.

“A hactive liver. Lord, Guv, my liver gets that hactive lately as I can’t set still—Joe knows, ax Joe! All as I ain’t got o’ human woes is toothache, not ‘avin’ no teeth to ache, y’ see, an’ them s’ rotten as it ‘ud make yer ‘eart bleed. An’ then I get took short o’ breath—look at me now, dang it!”

“Why, then, sit down, Old Un,” said Ravenslee, drawing up a somewhat worn armchair. “Joe and I are going at it hard and fast this afternoon, and I want you to time the rounds.” And he proceeded to remove his garments.

“Oh, j’y!” cried the Old Un, hugging himself in bony arms. “Oh, j’yful words. Ah, but you peels like a good un, sir,” he croaked, viewing white flesh and bulging muscle with knowing old eyes, “good an’ long in the arm an’ wide slope o’ shoulder. You might ha’ done well in the ring if you’d been blessed wi’ poverty an’ I’d ‘ad the ‘andling of ye—a world’s unbeat champion, like Joe. A good fighter were I an’ a wonnerful trainer! Ho, yus, I might ha’ made a top-notcher of ye if you ‘adn’t been cursed wi’ money.”

“I suppose,” said Ravenslee thoughtfully, “I suppose Joe was one of the best all-round fighting men that ever climbed into a ring?”

“Ah—that ‘e were! Joe were better ‘n the best—only don’t let ‘im ‘ear me say so, ‘e ‘d be that puffed up—Lord! But nobody could beat Joe—black, yaller or white; they all tried danged ‘ard, but Joe were a world-beater—y’ see, I trained Joe! An’ to-day ‘e ‘s as good as ever ‘e was. Y’ see, Joe’s allus lived clean, sir, consequent Joe’s sound, wind an’ limb. Joe could go back an’ beat all these fancy bruisers and stringy young champs to-day—if ‘e only would—but don’t let ‘im ‘ear me say so.”

“You’re fond of Joe, Old Un?”

“An’ why for not, sir—s’ long as ‘e don’t know it? Didn’t ‘e look arter poor old me when ‘e ‘ad money, an’ when ‘e lost everything, didn’t ‘e look arter me still? An’ now ‘e ‘s your shuvver, don’ ‘e keep a roof over me poor old ‘ead like a son—don’t ‘e give me the run o’ jour garridge an’ let me watch ‘im spar wi’ you an’ your gentlemen friends? Ain’t ‘e the best an’ truest-‘earted man as ever drawed breath? Ah, a king o’ men is Joe, in the ring an’ out, sir—only never let ‘im ‘ear me say so—’e ‘d be that proud, Lord! there’d be no livin’ wi’ ‘im—sh, ‘ere ‘e be, sir.”

Joe had laid by his chauffeur’s garb and looked even bigger and grimmer in flannels and sweater.

“Ho you, Joe,” cried the old man, scowling, “did ye bring me that ‘bacca?”

“S’posin’ I didn’t?” demanded Joe.

“Then dang ye—twice!”

“An’ s’posin’ I did?”

“Then—give it ‘ere!”

“An’ that’s his gratitood, sir!” growled Joe, shaking his head and giving the packet into the old man’s clutching fingers. “A unnat’ral old bag-o’-bones, that’s what ‘e is, sir!”

“Bones!” croaked the Old Un viciously. “Bag-o’-bones am I? Yah—look at ye’self—pork, that’s what you are, all run to pork an’ blubber an’ fat, Joe, me pore lad—”

“Fat!” growled Joe. “Y’ know I ain’t fat; y’ know I’m as good a man as ever I was—look at that, you old sarpent!” And he smote himself with mighty fist—a blow to fell an ox. “Fat, am I?”

“As—lard!” nodded the old man, filling half an inch of blackened clay pipe with trembling fingers, “as a ‘og—”

“Now my crumbs—” began Joe fiercely.

“You’re flabby an’ soft, me pore lad,” grinned the old man. “Flabby as a babby an’ soft as a woman an’ fat as a—”

Joe reached out very suddenly, and picking up the old man, armchair and all, shook him to and fro until he croaked for mercy.

“Lor’ gorramighty!” he panted, as Joe set him down again.

“Fat, am I?” demanded Joe, scowling.

“Fat as a ‘og—fat as forty bloomin’ ‘ogs!” cried the old man vindictively. “An’ what’s more, your wind’s all gone—you couldn’t go five rounds wi’ a good ‘un!”

“Couldn’t I?”

“No!” shrieked the Old Un, “you’d be ‘anging on an’ blowing like a grampus!”

“Should I?”

“Ah—like a grampus!”

“Right-o!” nodded Joe, turning away, “no jam for your tea to-night.”

“Eh, what—what, would ye rob a pore old man of ‘is jam, Joe—a pore afflicted old cove as is dependent on ye ‘and an’ fut, Joe—a pore old gaffer as you’ve just shook up to that degree as ‘is pore old liver is a-bobbin’ about in ‘is innards like a jelly. Joe, ye couldn’t be so ‘eartless!”

“Ah, but I can!” nodded Joe. “An’ if ye give me any more lip, it’ll be no sugar in ye tea—”

“No sugar!” wailed the Old Un, then clenching a trembling old fist, he shook it in Joe’s scowling face. “Then dang ye—three times!” he cried. “What’s the old song say?

“‘Dang the man with three times three Who in ‘is ‘eathen rage Can ‘arm a ‘armless man like me Who’s ‘ead is bowed wi’ age!’

“An’ there’s for ye. Now listen again:

“‘Some men is this an’ some is that, But ‘ere’s a truth I know: A fightin’ cove who’s run to fat Is bound t’ puff an’ blow!’

“An’ there’s for ye again!”

Saying which, the Old Un nodded ferociously and proceeded to light his fragmentary pipe. During this colloquy Ravenslee had laid by his shabby clothes and now appeared clad and shod for the ring.

“Sir,” said Joe, taking a set of gloves from a locker, “if you are ready to box a round or so—”

“Why, no,” answered Ravenslee, “I don’t want to box to-day, Joe.”

“Eh?” said Joe, staring, “not?”

“I want to fight, Joe.”

“To—fight, sir?” repeated Joe.

“Fight?” cried the Old Un rapturously. “Oh, music—sweet music t’ me old ears! Fight? Oh, j’yful words! What’s the old song say?

“”Appy is the first as goes To black a eye or punch a nose!’”

“Get the mufflers on, Joe; get ‘em on an’ don’t stand staring like a fool!”

“But, sir,” said Joe, his mild eyes kindling, “d’ ye mean as you want—the real thing?”

“To-day,” said Ravenslee, “instead of boxing a round or two with Joe Madden, my chauffeur and mechanic, I want to see how long I can stand up to Joe Madden, undefeated champion of the world.”

Joe’s lean cheek flushed and he looked Ravenslee over with eyes of yearning; noted the thin flanks and slender legs that showed speed, the breadth of shoulder and long arms that spoke strength, and the deep, arched chest that showed endurance; Joe looked and sighed and shook his head.

“Sir,” said he, “I honour and respect you to that degree as it would be a joy to fight such a man as you and a rare privilege t’ knock you down—but, sir, if I was to knock ye down—”

“You’d earn a five-dollar bill.”

“Five dollars—for knockin’ you down, sir?”

“Every time!” nodded Ravenslee.

“But Lord, sir—”

“Shut up, Joe, shut up,” snarled the Old Un, hopping out of the armchair. “Don’t gape like a perishin’ fish; come on up-stairs an’ knock the Guv’nor down like ‘e tells ye—an’ ‘arves on the money, mind; it was me as taught ye all you know or ever will, so ‘arves on the money, Joe, ‘arves on the money. Come on, Joe—d’j ‘ear?”

“Crumbs!” said Joe.

“Look at ‘im. Guv—look at ‘im!” shrieked the old man, dancing to and fro in his impatience, “‘ere’s a chance for ‘im to earn a pore old cove a bit o’ ‘bacca money, an’, what’s better still, t’ show a pore old fightin’ man a bit o’ real sport—an’ there ‘e stands, staring like a perishing pork pig! Blimy, Guv, get behind an’ ‘elp me to shove ‘im up-stairs.”

“But, crikey, sir!” said Joe, “five dollars every time I—”

“Yus, yus, you bloomin’ hadjective—two dollars fifty for each of us! ‘Urry up, oh, ‘urry up afore ‘e changes ‘is mind an’ begins to ‘edge.”

So Joe follows his “Guv’nor” and the Old Un up a flight of stairs and into a large chamber fitted as a gymnasium, where are four roped and padded posts socketed into the floor; close by is a high-backed armchair in which the Old Un seats himself with an air of heavy portent.

But when Joe would have ducked under the ropes, the Old Un stayed him with an imperious gesture, and, clambering into the ring, advanced to the centre and bowed gravely as if to a countless multitude.

“Gentlemen,” he piped in his shrill old voice, “I take pleasure to introduce Joe Madden, undefeated ‘eavyweight champion o’ the world, an’ the Guv—both members of this club an’ both trained by me, Jack Bowser, once lightweight champion of England an’ hall the Americas. Gentlemen, it will be a fight to a finish—Markis o’ Queensberry rules. Gentlemen—I thank ye.” Having said which, the Old Un bowed again, gravely stepped from the ring, and ensconcing himself in the armchair, drew out a large and highly ornate watch, while Ravenslee and Joe vaulted over the ropes.

Behold them facing each other, the brown-skinned fighting man wise in ringcraft and champion of a hundred fights, and the white-fleshed athlete, each alike clean and bright of eye, light-poised of foot, quivering for swift action, while the Old Un looks needfully from one to the other, watch in one bony hand, the other upraised.

“Get ready!” he croaked. “Go!”

Comes immediately a quick, light tread of rubber-soled feet and the flash of white arms as they circle about and about, feinting, watchful and wary. Twice Ravenslee’s fist shoots out and twice is blocked by Joe’s open glove, and once he ducks a vicious swing and lands a half-arm jolt that makes Joe grin and stagger, whereat the Old Un, standing upon his chair, hugs himself in an ecstasy, and forgetful of such small matters as five-dollar bills, urges, prays, beseeches, and implores the Guv to “wallop the blighter on the p’int, to stab ‘im on the mark, and to jolt ‘im in the kidney-pit.”

“Go it, Guv!” he shrieked, “go it! In an’ out again, that’s it—Gorramighty, I never see sich speed. Oh, keep at ‘im, Guv—make ‘im cover up—sock it into ‘im, Guv! Ho, lumme, what footwork—you’re as quick as lightweights—oh, ‘appy, ‘appy day! Go to it, both on ye!”