“Well,” said Price, “he’s got to go; but you won’t hurt him, Alf, will you?” “No,” said Alf, “I won’t hurt him. I’ll just make him look a fool. This is where science comes in.” “I’m honest old Tom,” droned the boatman. “If you _will_ have it,” said Alf, with fine aposiopesis. He squared up to him. Now Alf Joblin, like the other pugilists of my class, habitually refrained from delivering any sort of attack until he was well assured that he had seen an orthodox opening. A large part of every round between Hatton’s boys was devoted to stealthy circular movements, signifying nothing. But Thomas Blake had not had the advantage of scientific tuition. He came banging in with a sweeping right. Alf stopped him with his left. Again Blake swung his right, and again he took Alf’s stopping blow without a blink. Then he went straight in, right and left in quick succession. The force of the right was broken by Alf’s guard, but the left got home on the mark; and Alf Joblin’s wind left him suddenly. He sat down on the floor. To say that this tragedy in less than five seconds produced dismay among the onlookers would be incorrect. They were not dismayed. They were amused. They thought that Alf had laid himself open to chaff. Whether he had slipped or lost his head they did not know. But as for thinking that Alf with all his scientific knowledge was not more than a match for this ignorant, intoxicated boatman, such a reflection never entered their heads. What is more, each separate member of the audience was convinced that he individually was the proper person to illustrate the efficacy of style versus untutored savagery. As soon, therefore, as Alf Joblin went writhing to the floor, and Thomas Blake’s voice was raised afresh in a universal challenge, Walter Greenway stepped briskly forward. And as soon as Walter’s guard had been smashed down by a most unconventional attack, and Walter himself had been knocked senseless by a swing on the side of the jaw, Bill Shale leaped gaily forth to take his place. And so it happened that, when I entered the building at nine, it was as though a devastating tornado had swept down every club boy, sparing only Sidney Price, who was preparing miserably to meet his fate. To me, standing in the doorway, the situation was plain at the first glance. Only by a big effort could I prevent myself laughing outright. It was impossible to check a grin. Thomas Blake saw me. “Hullo!” I said; “what’s all this?” He stared at me. “’Ullo!” he said, “another of ’em, is it? I’m honest old Tom Blake, _I_ am, and wot I say is——” “Why honest, Mr. Blake?” I interrupted. “Call me a liar, then!” said he. “Go on. You do it. Call it me, then, and let’s see.” He began to shuffle towards me. “Who pinched his father’s trousers, and popped them?” I inquired genially. He stopped and blinked. “Eh?” he said weakly. “And who,” I continued, “when sent with twopence to buy postage-stamps, squandered it on beer?”