“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!”

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.