Hatton was first off the mark. He raced down the incline to the Circus at a tremendous speed. He was just in sight as he swung laboriously round and headed for home. But meeting him on our outward journey, we noticed that the upward slope was distressing him. “Shall we do it?” we asked. “Yessir,” said our driver. And now we, too, were on the up grade. We went up the hill at a gallop: were equal with Hatton at Fetter Lane, and reached the Temple Gate yards to the good. The ancient driver of a four-wheeler had been the witness of the finish. He gazed with displeasure upon us. “This ’ere’s a nice use ter put Fleet Street to, I don’t think,” he said coldly. This sarcastic rebuke rather damped us, and after Hatton had paid Malim his half-crown, and had invited me to visit him, we departed. “Queer chap, Hatton,” said Malim as we walked up the Strand. I was to discover at no distant date that he was distinctly a many-sided man. I have met a good many clergymen in my time, but I have never come across one quite like the Rev. John Hatton. CHAPTER 9 JULIAN LEARNS MY SECRET _(James Orlebar Cloyster’s narrative continued)_ A difficulty in the life of a literary man in London is the question of getting systematic exercise. At school and college I had been accustomed to play games every day, and now I felt the change acutely. It was through this that I first became really intimate with John Hatton, and incidentally with Sidney Price, of the Moon Assurance Company. I happened to mention my trouble one night in Hatton’s rooms. I had been there frequently since my first visit. “None of my waistcoats fit,” I remarked. “My dear fellow,” said Hatton, “I’ll give you exercise and to spare; that is to say, if you can box.” “I’m not a champion,” I said; “but I’m fond of it. I shouldn’t mind taking up boxing again. There’s nothing like it for exercise.” “Quite right, James,” he replied; “and exercise, as I often tell my boys, is essential.” “What boys?” I asked. “My club boys,” said Hatton. “They belong to the most dingy quarter of the whole of London—South Lambeth. They are not hooligans. They are not so interesting as that. They represent the class of youth that is a stratum or two above hooliganism. Frightful weeds. They lack the robust animalism of the class below them, and they lack the intelligence of the class above them. The fellows at my club are mostly hard-working mechanics and under-paid office boys. They have nothing approaching a sense of humour or the instinct of sport.” “Not very encouraging,” I said.