Misfortune had taught Bishop caution.  I could see he feared Harding’s enormous strength and that he aimed to wind him if possible.  He managed to elude the grasp of his antagonist for probably a minute, and more by luck than skill fell on top when the end of the clinch came.  But Harding was not down by any means, and there then ensued a struggle which made me oblivious to all surroundings.

Though I was the referee I was “rooting” for Harding, and so was Carter, while Marshall and Chilvers were giving mental and vocal encouragement to Bishop.  I do not suppose any of us realised we were saying a word.

First Harding would have a slight advantage, and then the tide would turn in favour of Bishop.  The latter was more agile, but the former outclassed him in power.  They writhed along that croquet ground like two gigantic tumble-bugs locked in a life and death struggle.  Neither said a word, and both were absolutely fair in attack and defense.  As the struggle continued it seemed to me that Harding was weakening, but he told me later he was merely resting for the effort which would insure him victory.

I heard the swish of skirts, the frightened cry of female voices, and the next instant two most estimable ladies invaded the improvised ring and laid hands on the principals.

I doubt if the combined physical exertion of Mrs. Bishop and Mrs. Harding could have made the slightest impress on the embrace which held their lords and masters, but what they said had a magical and peacemaking effect.

“James Bishop, you should be ashamed of yourself!” exclaimed Mrs. Bishop, tugging at the remnant of a shirt, which promptly detached itself from the general wreck.

[Illustration:  “We’re not fighting, my dear!”]

“Robert Harding, what do you mean by fighting?” gasped Mrs. Harding, tugging at his undershirt, the outer garment long since having lost its entity.

Instantly they relaxed their holds, rolled over and came to a sitting posture, facing each other and their respective wives.  It was as if the act had carefully been rehearsed, and was ludicrous beyond any description at my command.

Their glances rested for an instant on one another, and then on their frightened and indignant helpmates.  Their attitude was that of two schoolboys detected by their teachers in some forbidden act.  I am sure Harding would have spoken sooner if he could have recovered his breath.

“We’re not fighting, my dear!” he managed to say.  “Are we, Jim?” he added with a mighty effort.

“Of course not,” declared Bishop, gouging a piece of turf from his eye.  “We’re only rasslin’; that’s all, isn’t it, Bob?”

“And you in your best suit of clothes, James Bishop!” exclaimed his good wife.

“You should see how you look, Mr. Harding,” added his better half with justifiable emphasis.  “Are you hurt?” anger changing to solicitude.

“Of course I’m not hurt,” he asserted.  “We were only fooling.  Where in thunder is my shirt?”