Penlove shook hands. “Sorry,” he said. “We have been beastly to you. Take my tip and don’t stand any more of it.” The story of the fight got about. Penlove had to account for his changed appearance, and did so frankly. Genuine respect was the leading sentiment he now entertained towards Anthony. It was shared by almost the entire third class, the only criticism directed against Anthony being for his selection of time and place. The fight ought to have been arranged for a Friday afternoon behind the pavilion, when all things might have been ordered according to ancient custom. That error could and must be rectified. Penlove’s account of Anthony’s prowess might have been exaggerated to excuse his own defeat. Norcop, a hefty youngster and the pride of the lower fourth, might have given a different account. Anthony, on his way home two days later, was overtaken in a quiet street by young Mowbray. “You’ll have to fight Norcop next Friday week,” he told Anthony. “If you lick him there’s to be an end of it, and you’re to be left alone. I thought I’d let you know in time.” Mowbray lived at the Priory, an old Georgian house with a big garden the other end of the town. He had come far out of his way. “It’s awfully kind of you,” said Anthony. “I hope you’ll win,” said Mowbray. “I’m a Socialist. I think it rubbish all this difference between the classes. I think we’re all equal, and so does my sister. She’s awfully well read.” Anthony was not paying much attention. His mind was occupied with the ordeal before him. “He’s rather good, isn’t he, Harry Norcop?” he asked. “That’s why they’re putting him up,” answered Mowbray. “It’s a rotten silly idea. It’s the way that pack of wolves settle their differences. And the wolf that goes down all the others turn away from and try to make it worse for the poor begger. We’re just the same. If you get licked on Friday you’ll be persecuted worse than ever. There’s no sense in it.” Anthony looked round at him. It was new sort of talk, this. Young Mowbray flushed. “I wonder if you could get to like me,” he said. “I liked you so for what you said to Penlove about your thinking it fine of your mother to go out cleaning. I haven’t got any friends among the boys; not real ones. They think me a muff.” “I don’t,” answered Anthony. “I think you talk awfully interestingly. I’d like tremendously to be friends.” Mowbray flushed again, with pleasure this time. “Won’t keep you now,” he said. “I do hope you’ll win.” Anthony never left more than he could help to chance. For the next week all his spare time was passed in the company of Mr. Dobb, who took upon himself the duties not only of instructor but of trainer. On the following Friday afternoon Anthony stepped into the ring with feelings of pleasurable anticipation.