"I guess," said Mr. Pratt, "we had better clear the furniture out of the middle of the room." Mr. Pownceby assisted him in doing so, what little there was to clear. The bottle of champagne and the two glasses they placed with the revolver on the mantelshelf. They then proceeded to strip. As they were doing so Mr. Pownceby asked a question. "How shall we manage about time?" "We will call time when we feel we want it. You understand, this is not only a fight; it's a whipping. I'm whipping you." Mr. Pownceby smiled as he answered: "I understand exactly." When they were in position there was not much, so far as appearance went, for a lover of the "fancy" to choose between the two. Now that they were peeled, both seemed thoroughly fit--as fit almost as though they had been trained. Mr. Pownceby was fair, Mr. Pratt was dark; that was about the only difference. Both would have turned the scale at something near eleven stone, and both measured something under five foot eight. Nor did it take long to show that both could use their hands. There was none of that waiting for each other which so often tries the patience of the spectators round a ring. Mr. Pratt came at once to business; with, perhaps, rather too much self-confidence. He was apparently under the impression that it was going to be a case of whipping his opponent from the first; which was the reason, doubtless, that Mr. Pownceby succeeded in returning the compliment which had been paid himself, and landing Mr. Pratt upon his back. That gentleman seemed surprised. "I say," he asked, lying where he had fallen, "what's this?" Mr. Pownceby replied politely: "I hope I haven't hurt you?" "You haven't hurt me--much. You've surprised me--more. I reckon we'll continue." The proceedings recommenced. But this time Mr. Pratt had changed his tactics. Instead of coming up with the apparent intention of wiping his opponent off the face of the earth with a single blow, he played his game more cautiously. He fenced; but, becoming tired of this, and feeling possibly that the whipping was not proceeding fast enough, he led off with his right, and followed on with his left, and Mr. Pownceby countered and returned--returned with such effect that for half a minute Mr. Pratt was dancing about while Mr. Pownceby was performing on him much in the fashion which the regimental drummer beats to quarters on his drum. "Time!" he cried. The round was over. A pause ensued, during which his feelings were plainly too deep for words. "Have you ever had a whipping before?" he asked. Mr. Pownceby smiled; it was evident that his smile was a smile of enjoyment at last. "One or two," he said. "Like this?" "Not exactly. In England we don't, as a rule, indulge in this form of amusement in the private sitting-room of an hotel."