Such were his expressions as we danced and ducked, feinted and smote, and as often as he bade me watch his right, that same right smacked home upon my ribs or face while I wasted myself in futile yet exceedingly earnest efforts to smite in turn his ever-moving body or elusive, wagging head, what time over and under and through my guard shot his terrible fists, to tap me lightly here, to pat me there until my breath grew short. And now, while I stood to get my wind, he explained how it was done, showing me sudden volts and turns and shifts which he termed foot-work. He showed me how to drive in short-arm blows, swinging from the hips, and how to evade them; how, when occasion favoured, to hit from the shoulder with all my strength and weight behind the blow, and how to meet a ducking head with what he called an uppercut, just such a terrible stroke as had caused the downfall of the big man Tom. Thus Jessamy alternately smote and lectured me until, warned by Diana's clear call, we donned shirts and waistcoats and strode away to breakfast. "And how's he shaping, Jessamy?" enquired the Tinker, serving out ham, pink and savoury, from the hissing frying pan, while Diana poured out the coffee. "None s' bad," answered Jessamy; "he's quick an' willing an' don't mind bein' knocked down now and then, which is a good thing--you went down pretty frequent that last round, brother!" Here Diana, noting my battered dishevelment, scowled at Jessamy adorably. "It ain't--isn't needful to hit quite so hard, is it, Jessamy?" she enquired. "Why, yes, Ann. Peregrine wants me to teach him to fight an' you can't teach that to any man by tapping him, d'ye see." "But, then, Jessamy," said the Tinker, with his twinkling, bright eyes on Diana, "Peregrine ain't exactly a Milo o' Crete as had a habit o' slayin' oxen wi' a blow of his fist; Peregrine's delicate frame could never endoor real good, hard knocks--" "But it could, Jerry!" exclaimed Diana. "Nobody could hit him harder than I've seen him hit, except Jessamy, p'raps." Now at this I was seized of such a yearning to kiss her that I bent lower over my platter lest the impulse prove ungovernable. "It ain't size as counts, brother," added Jessamy, "no--not once in a thousand; an' as for this cove Milo, big an' heavy an' slow as a waggon o' bricks, I could eat him alive any day. Though to be sure 't would only be vanity an' vexation arter all," he added mournfully, "so let's talk o' better things." "Why, then, Jessamy," said the Tinker, his eyes twinkling more than usual, "what might be the pre-cise time by your chronometer?" "It is now," replied Jessamy, solemnly consulting his watch, "exactly five an' three quarter minutes to seven, Jerry." "Then I take leave to tell ye, you're exactly two minutes an' a half slow," retorted the Tinker, glancing at his own. "You're very silent, Peregrine; does aught grieve ye?" enquired the Tinker. "Did I shake ye up a bit too much, brother?" enquired Jessamy anxiously.