He had kept himself in fine condition, for he was in training to play football and he was known to be a first-rate boxer. They flew at him, roaring to encourage one another. There were six or eight of them, but they were afraid of his fists. "Come on, boys!" "Hit 'im a good 'un, Bill! 'E's spoilin' our business, that's what 'e's doin'." "Push in his face. 'Ammer 'im good 'n' proper!" "We'll show 'im what's what!" "'E's a noosance. Le's get rid of 'im. Lemme get at 'im once. I'll show 'im!" So they came on, clumsy with drink, but their maudlin outcries didn't scare Grenfell a bit. He was waiting for them,--cool, quiet, determined. Their diet was mostly bad ale and beer, or whiskey: Grenfell was all muscle, from constant exercise and wholesome diet--the roast beef of old England, whole wheat bread, plenty of rich milk. They were no match for him. On they came, one after another. The first lunged out heavily; Grenfell parried the blow with his right hand and landed his left on the jaw. The ruffian fell to the floor like a log of wood and lay there. As he fell, he clutched at the corner of the table and overturned it with a mighty crash on top of him. The second man got a blow on the nose that sent him over to the corner to wipe away the blood. The rest Grenfell laid out flat on the floor in one, two, three order. They came at him again, those who were able to go on. They got their arms around him but he threw them off. They kicked him and he knocked them down again. They bit and clawed and scratched and used all the foul tactics that they knew. They tried to get him from both sides--they rushed at him from the front and the rear at the same time. Agile as a cat he turned and faced them whichever way they came, and those quick, hard fists of his shot out and hit them on the chin or on the nose till they bled like stuck pigs and bawled for mercy. Grenfell stood there amid the wrecked furniture, his clothes torn, bleeding and triumphant. "Want any more?" he smiled. When they saw that all combined they were no match for this wildcat they had roused to action, they said: "Well, le's call it quits. Le's have peace." They never tackled him again. They didn't know much, to be sure, but they knew when they had had enough of "a first-class fighting man." Then Grenfell started camping-parties with poor boys who hadn't any money to spend for holidays. The first summer he had thirteen at the seashore. A boy had to take a sea-bath before he got his breakfast. No one could go in a boat unless he could swim. The beds were hay-stuffed burlap bags. A lifeboat retired from service was more fun than Noah's Ark to keep the happy company afloat for a fishing-party or a picnic. Next year there were thirty boys: then the number grew to a hundred, and more. Not one life was lost. How they loved it all! Especially when the boat, twelve boys at the oars, came plunging in, on the returning tide, with the boys all singing at the top of their voices: