After a pause Jimmy murmured, “No” in a low voice.  So might a mortal whisper a reply when interrogated from Olympus as to his readiness to be starter at a combat of the immortal gods.

“Now, then, watch in hand and no favoritism!” bellowed Jenkins, whose sense of humor was as boisterous as his firmness was grim.  “Are we ready?”

Dion and he shook hands formally and lifted their arms, gazing at each other warily.  Mrs. Clarke leaned forward in the chair which stood among the dumb-bells.  Jimmy perspired and his eyes became round.  He had his silver watch tight in his right fist.  Jenkins suddenly turned his head and stared with his shallow and steady blue eyes, looking down from Olympus upon the speck of a mortal far below.

“Go!” piped Jimmy, in the voice of an ardent, but awestruck mouse.

Homeric was that combat in the Harrow Road; to its starter and timekeeper a contest of giants, awful in force, in skill, in agility, in endurance.  Dion boxed quite his best that day, helped by his gallery.  He fought to win, but he didn’t win.  Nobody won, for there was no knock-out blow given and taken, and, when appealed to for a decision on points, Jimmy, breathing stertorously from excitement, was quite unable to give the award.  He could only stare at the two glorious heroes before him and drop the silver watch, glass downwards of course, on the floor, where its tinkle told of destruction.  Later on, when he spoke, he was able to say: 

“By Jove!” which he presently amplified into, “I say, mater, by Jove—­eh, wasn’t it, though?”

“Not so bad, sir!” said Jenkins to Dion, after the latter had taken the shower bath.  “You aren’t as stale as I expected to find you, not near as stale.  But I hope you’ll keep it up now you’ve started with it again.”

And Dion promised he would, put his bicycle on the top of a fourwheeler, sent it off to Westminster, and walked as far as Claridge’s with Mrs. Clarke and Jimmy.

The boy made him feel tremendously intimate with Mrs. Clarke.  The hero-worship he was receiving, the dancing of the blood through his veins, the glow of hard exercise, the verdict of Jenkins on his physical condition—­all these things combined spurred him to a joyous exuberance in which body and mind seemed to run like a matched pair of horses in perfect accord.  Although not at all a conceited man, the feeling that he was being admired, even reverenced, was delightful to him, and warmed his heart towards the jolly small boy who kept along by his side through the busy streets.  He and Jimmy talked in a comradely spirit, while Mrs. Clarke seemed to listen like one who has things to learn.  She was evidently a capital walker in spite of her delicate appearance.  To-day Dion began to believe in her iron health, and, in his joy of the body, he liked to think of it.  After all delicacy, even in a woman, was a fault—­a fault of the body, a sort of fretful imperfection.