“What I want is fair play and no favour,” said Mr. Larkins; “it’s to be a genuine sporting affair. No bad blood or anything of that kind. After the little affair, all what go to see it are welcome to one drink at my expense.” “It’s time my man was back,” said Bullock, looking up the road which led over the cliffs. “I told him to go just as far as the ground and back.” “Old Peter Morgan’s gone down to the place too, I think,” piped a small lad in huge boots. “I saw ’im following of Tarbut.” The landlord of the “Three Fishers” started uneasily. “It’s on my mind,” he said, in a melancholy voice, “that that blessed old teetotaller’ll have the thing stopped. He’ll tell the police or something.” “No he won’t,” said the old fisherman who had spoken before. “Me an’ Peter was boys together, an’ he’s never done anything o’ that sort in his life. Before old Peter got religious there was nothing he liked better than to see a fight, or to take part in one either, an’ it’s my opinion he’d like to see this one, only he don’t like to say so.” “Well, he won’t,” said Larkins, grimly; “it may be as you say, but we’re not going to take any risks.” Conversation became general, and in view of the nearness of the event, animated, but still the two gladiators failed to put in an appearance. “He’s overdoing it, that’s what he is,” said Mr. Larkins, referring to the ardent Gubbs. “You can ’ave a man too willing. He’ll go and knock hisself up.” The small boy came up, his big boots clattering over the stones, and, shading his eyes with his hands, looked up the road. The other men, following his gaze, saw three men advancing lovingly arm-in-arm towards them. “It—it can’t be old Morgan with ’em?” said Mr. Larkins. “It is, though,” said the old fisherman, peering through screwed-up eyes. “They’ve made it up through old Peter, that’s wot they’ve done. He’s been talking at ’em and getting at ’em, and now there won’t be no fight.” His disappointed auditors groaned in chorus. “Won’t there,” said Larkins, savagely. “Ho—won’t there—— You don’t think me and my friend Bullock here are going to slave three weeks for nothing, do you?” “There won’t be no fight,” repeated the old man. “Look how loving they are! All three of ’em as close together as sweethearts.” The advancing trio certainly bore out the old man’s words to the letter. Mr. Peter Morgan was in the centre, and appeared to be half-embracing his companions. “Why, they can hardly walk,” said Bullock; “they’ve been too far.” “Yes, that’s what it is,” said Larkins, in a hollow voice. “Seems to me,” said the boy, slowly, “that they’ve ’ad a bit of a scrap already.”