When the prize-ring was set up between four walls, and its contests decided after dinner before a mob of gentlemen in evening dress, its chief London home was, and is, the National Sporting Club. The National Sporting Club was not the direct descendant of the prize-ring, but came to the sons of men by way of the West London Rowing Club, in connection with which there was a boxing-club supported by such sportsmen as “Pills” Holloway, “Nobby” Hall, and other gentlemen pugilists. The umpires, referees, and time-keepers at the National Sporting Club had graduated at the West London, which had its premises on the tow-path by Putney Bridge. The chief of these were Mr. “Jack” Angle, Mr. Vyse, and Mr. “Tom” Anderson, of the Board of Trade. All three were men of dress and of address—what used to be called “swells,” in fact—and Anderson was always noted for the wonderful depth of his linen collars; indeed, he may be said to have set that fashion in collars which a few years since bid fair to strangle the rising hope of England. Whenever a boxing contest came off at the National Sporting, the names of these three veterans of the gloves appeared in the newspapers publishing reports of the “fights.” When Sir Courtney Boyle became Chief of the Board of Trade, he was scandalized to find the name of a gentleman holding an important position in the office appearing publicly in such a degrading connection, and Anderson was tabled, and informed that if he wished to retain his position he must abandon all official connection with the “ring.” Anderson’s resentment may, perhaps, be found expressed in the fact that shortly afterwards Sir Courtney became known in Whitehall as “Doubtful Boyle.” On being asked the meaning of the sobriquet, Anderson would slyly answer: “The chief is so called because he is always in doubt as to whether godamighty made him or he made godamighty!” When the National Sporting Club was yet unthought of, and when the premises they occupy was still Evans’s Hotel, there was a tobacconist’s shop next door, and behind the shop there was an American bowling-alley. This was Kilpack’s. It was an old-fashioned shop, and the customers sat on tobacco-barrels beside the counter. The bowling-alley was not much frequented when I knew it; but earlier in the nineteenth century it had a vogue, I understand. It was a capital alley, and I have enjoyed many a game there with citizens of the United States, who did not, I am bound to confess, take much stock in the pastime. Behind the counter of the cigar-shop was a middle-aged man, very genial and reminiscent. The customers always called him “Kilpack,” and he always “answered” to that name; but the original Kilpacks had disappeared long before, and this amiable person—probably a Smith or a Jones—thought it a safe policy to carry on the old traditions under the old name. Kilpack’s was “A link within the days to bind The generations each to each.”