Will sighed. “Not in this neighbourhood, sir; I might in a town.” “Why not move to a town, then?” The young man coloured, and shook his head. Kenelm turned appealingly to Mrs. Somers. “I’ll be willing to go wherever it would be best for my boy, sir. But--” and here she checked herself, and a tear trickled silently down her cheeks. Will resumed, in a more cheerful tone, “I am getting a little known now, and work will come if one waits for it.” Kenelm did not deem it courteous or discreet to intrude further on Will’s confidence in the first interview; and he began to feel, more than he had done at first, not only the dull pain of the bruises he had received in the recent combat, but also somewhat more than the weariness which follows long summer-day’s work in the open air. He therefore, rather abruptly, now took his leave, saying that he should be very glad of a few specimens of Will’s ingenuity and skill, and would call or write to give directions about them. Just as he came in sight of Tom Bowles’s house on his way back to Mr. Saunderson’s, Kenelm saw a man mounting a pony that stood tied up at the gate, and exchanging a few words with a respectable-looking woman before he rode on. He was passing by Kenelm without notice, when that philosophical vagrant stopped him, saying, “If I am not mistaken, sir, you are the doctor. There is not much the matter with Mr. Bowles?” The doctor shook his head. “I can’t say yet. He has had a very ugly blow somewhere.” “It was just under the left ear. I did not aim at that exact spot: but Bowles unluckily swerved a little aside at the moment, perhaps in surprise at a tap between his eyes immediately preceding it: and so, as you say, it was an ugly blow that he received. But if it cures him of the habit of giving ugly blows to other people who can bear them less safely, perhaps it may be all for his good, as, no doubt, sir, your schoolmaster said when he flogged you.” “Bless my soul! are you the man who fought with him,--you? I can’t believe it.” “Why not?” “Why not! So far as I can judge by this light, though you are a tall fellow, Tom Bowles must be a much heavier weight than you are.” “Tom Spring was the champion of England; and according to the records of his weight, which history has preserved in her archives, Tom Spring was a lighter weight than I am.” “But are you a prize-fighter?” “I am as much that as I am anything else. But to return to Mr. Bowles, was it necessary to bleed him?” “Yes; he was unconscious, or nearly so, when I came. I took away a few ounces; and I am happy to say he is now sensible, but must be kept very quiet.” “No doubt; but I hope he will be well enough to see me to-morrow.” “I hope so too; but I can’t say yet. Quarrel about a girl,--eh?” “It was not about money. And I suppose if there were no money and no women in the world, there would be no quarrels and very few doctors. Good-night, Sir.”