And “to it” they went, with jabs and jolts, hooks and swings, with cunning feints and lightning counters until the place echoed and reechoed to the swift tramp of feet and dull thudding of blows, while the Old Un, hugging himself in long, bony arms, chuckled and choked and rocked himself to and fro in an ecstasy; moreover, when Joe, uttering a grunt, reeled back against the ropes, the Old Un must needs shriek and dance and crow with delight until, bethinking him of his duty, he checked his excitement, seated himself in the armchair again, and announced: “Time! End o’ round one.”

And it is to be noticed that as they sit down to take their two minutes’ rest, neither Ravenslee nor Joe, for all their exertions, seem unduly distressed in their breathing.

“Sir,” says Joe, looking his pupil over, “you’re uncommon quick on your pins; never knowed a quicker—did you, Old Un?”

“No, me lad—never in all me days!”

“An’ you’ve sure-ly got a punch, sir. Ain’t ‘e, Old Un?”

“Like a perishin’ triphammer!” nodded the Old Un. “Likewise, sir, you’ve a wonderful judgment o’ distance—but, sir, you need experience!”

“That’s what I’m after, Joe.”

“And you take too many chances; you ain’t larned caution yet.”

“That you must teach me, Joe.”

“Which I surely will, sir. In the next round, subject to no objection, I propose to knock ye down, sir.”

“Which means two dollars fifty for each on us, Joe—mind that,” added the Old Un.

“So fight more cautious, sir, do,” pleaded Joe, “and—look out.”

“Time!” croaked the Old Un. “Round two! And Guv, look out for yer p’int, cover yer mark, an’ keep a heye on yer kidney-pit!”

Once again they faced each other, but this time it was Joe who circled quick and catlike, massive shoulders bowed, knees bent, craggy chin grim and firm-set, but blue eyes serene and mild as ever. A moment’s silent sparring, a quick tread of feet, and Joe feints Ravenslee into an opening, swings for his chin, misses by an inch, and ducking a vicious counter, drives home a smashing body-blow and, staggering weakly, Ravenslee goes down full length.

“Shook ye up a bit, sir?” enquired Joe, running up with hands outstretched, “take a rest, now do, sir.”

“No, no,” answered Ravenslee, springing to his feet, “the Old Un hasn’t called ‘Time’ yet.”

“Not me!” piped the old man, “not bloomin’ likely! Go to it, both on ye—mind, that’s two-fifty for me, Joe!”

What need is there to tell the numerous feints, the lightning shifts, the different tricks of in-fighting and all the cunning strategy and ringcraft that Joe brought to bear and carefully explained between rounds? Suffice it that at the end of a certain fierce “mix up”, as Ravenslee sat outstretched and panting, the white flesh of arms and broad chest discovered many livid marks and patches that told their tale; also one elbow was grazed and bleeding, and one knee showed signs of contact with the floor.

“Joe,” said he, when his wind was somewhat recovered, “that makes it thirty dollars I owe you, I think?”

“Why, sir,” said Joe, who also showed some slight signs of wear, but whose breathing was soft and regular, “why, sir, you couldn’t call that last one a real knockdown—”

“You ‘m a liar, Joe, a liar!” cried the Old Un. “Blimy, Guv, Joe’s a-tellin’ you crackers, s’ help me—your ‘ands touched the floor, didn’t they?”

“And my knees, too,” nodded Ravenslee, “also my elbow—no, that was last time or the time before.”

“Well, then, tell this lying Joe-lad o’ mine as ‘e surely did knock ye down. Lord, Joe!” cried the Old Un, waxing pathetic, “‘ow can ye go takin’ money from a pore old cove like I be. Joe, I blushes for ye—an’—Time, Time there, both on ye!”

“But we don’t want any more, do we, sir?” enquired Joe.

“Why, yes, I think I can go another round or so.”

“There y’ are, Joe, the Guv’s surely a game cove. So get at it, me lad, an’ try an’ knock it up to fifty dollars—’arves, Joe, mind!”

“But, sir,” began Joe, eyeing the livid blotches on Ravenslee’s white skin, “don’t ye think—”

“Time—oh, Time, Time!” shrieked the Old Un. Whereupon Ravenslee sprang to the centre of the ring, and once again the air resounded with tramp of feet and pant of breath. Twice Ravenslee staggers beneath Joe’s mighty left, but watchful ever and having learned much, Ravenslee keeps away, biding his time—ducks a swing, sidesteps a drive, and blocking a vicious hook—smacks home his long left to Joe’s ribs, rocks him with a swinging uppercut, drives in a lightning left and right, and Joe goes down with a crash.

Even while the Old Un stared in wide-eyed, gaping amaze, Joe was on his feet again, serene and calm as ever, only his great chest laboured somewhat, but Ravenslee shook his head.

“I guess that’ll be about enough, Joe,” said he.

“Guv,” cried the Old Un, seizing Ravenslee’s right hand, boxing glove and all, and shaking it to and fro, “you’re a credit to us, you do us bloomin’ proud—strike me pink, ye do! ‘Ere ‘s Joe ‘ammered you an’ ‘ammered you—look at your bloomin’ chest—lumme! ‘Ere ‘s Joe been knockin’ ye down an’ knockin’ ye down, an’ you comin’ up smilin’ for more an’ gettin’ it—’ere’s Joe been a-poundin’ of ye all over the ring, yet you can finish strong an’ speedy enough to put Joe down—blimy, Guv, you’re a wonder an’ no error!”

“I don’t think Joe fought his hardest, Old Un.”

“If ‘e didn’t,” cried the old man, “I’ll punch ‘im on the nose so ‘e won’t never smell nothink no more.”

“Sir,” said Joe, “in the first round p’raps I did go a bit easylike, but arter that I came at you as ‘ard an’ ‘eavy as I could. I ‘it you where an’ ‘ow I could, barrin’ your face.”

“I hope I shall soon be good enough for you to go for my face as well, Joe.”

“But, sir—if I give you a black eye—”

“How will—say, ten dollars do?”

“Ten dollars! For blacking your eye, sir?”

“Lumme, Joe!” cried the Old Un, “get back into the ring and black ‘em both—”

“Shut up!” said Joe, scowling down into the Old Un’s eager face, “you ‘eartless old bloodsucker, you!”

“Bloodsucker!” screamed the old man, “w’ot, me? I’ll punch you on the ear-‘ole, Joe, so’s you never ‘ear nothin’ no more.”

“Are you on, Joe?” asked Ravenslee, while the Old Un, swearing softly, unlaced his gloves.

“But, crumbs, sir—axin’ your pardon, things’ll come a bit expensive, won’t they? Y’ see—”

“So much the better, ye blighted perisher!” snarled the Old Un, “an’ don’t forget as the Guv owes you thirty dollars a’ready—an’ ‘arves, mind.”

“Stow it, you old bag o’ wickedness—”

“Bag o’—” the Old Un let fall the boxing gloves and turning on Joe, reached up and shook a feeble old fist under the champion’s massive chin. “Look at this, me lad—look at this!” he croaked. “Some day I shall ketch you sich a perishin’ punch as’ll double ye up till kingdom come, me lad, and—Lord, the Guv’s countin’ out our money—”

“Thirty of ‘em, Joe,” said Ravenslee, holding out a wad of bills.

“Why, sir,” said Joe, backing away, “axing yer pardon, but I’d rayther not—you give me such uncommon good wages, sir, and a bonus every race we run, win or lose—so, sir, I—I’d rayther not—”

“Not?” cried the Old Un, “not take money as is ‘arf mine—Oh, kick ‘im, somebody—kick ‘im! Pound ‘im for a pigeon-‘earted perishin’ pork pig—”

“That’ll be no sugar in your tea t’night, old viciousness! But, sir, I’d rayther not—”

“Don’t ‘eed ‘im, Guv—don’t ‘eed the flappin’ flounder. If ‘e wont obleege ye in a little matter like thirty dollars, I will—I’ll always obleege you—”

“That’s enough from you, old tombstones.”

“Tombstones!” hissed the Old Un, scowling darkly and squaring his trembling fists, “all right, me lad, ‘ere ‘s where I ketch ye one as’ll flatten ye out till the day o’ doom—”

Hereupon Joe caught him above the elbows, and lifting him in mighty hands that yet were gentle, seated the snarling old fellow in the armchair.

“Old Un,” said he, shaking his finger, “if ye give me any more of it—off t’ bed I take ye without any tea at all!” The Old Un, cowering beneath that portentous finger, swore plaintively and promptly subsided.

“And now,” said Ravenslee, thrusting the money into Joe’s reluctant hand, “when I make a bargain, I generally keep it. I wish all my money had been spent to such good purpose.”

“What about me?” whined the old man humbly, “don’t I get none, Joe-lad?”

“Not a cent, you old rasper!”

“Blimy, Guv, you won’t forget a old cove as ‘ud shed ‘is best blood for ye?”

“The Guv’nor don’t want yer blood, old skin-and-bones. And now, come on, sir—”

“Stay a minute, Joe, the Old Un generally keeps time for us when we spar rounds.”

“That I do, Guv,” cried the old man, “an’ give ye advice worth its weight in solid gold; you owe me a lot, s’ ‘elp me.”

“About how much?”

“Well, Guv, I ain’t got me ledger-book ‘andy, but roughly speakin’ I should say about five or six ‘undred dollars. But seein’ you ‘s you an’ I’m me—a old man true-‘earted as never crossed nobody—let’s say—fifteen dollars.”

“Why, you old—thievin’—vagabone!” gasped Joe, as Ravenslee gravely handed over the money.

“Vagabone yourself!” said the Old Un, counting the bills over in trembling fingers. “The Guv wants a bath—take ‘im away—’ook it, d’j ‘ear?”

“Has Patterson got everything ready, Joe?” enquired Ravenslee, taking up his clothes.

“No, sir,” mumbled Joe, “but I’ll have ye bath ready in a jiffy, sir.”

“But where’s Patterson?”

“Well, ‘e—’e ‘s out, sir.”

“And the footmen?”

“They’re out, sir.”

“Oh! And the housekeeper—er—what’s her name—Mrs. Smythe?”

“Gone to call on her relations, sir.”

“Ah! And the maids?”