*I* London exercised the influence that might be expected upon such a character as Quinney’s. The soot, so to speak, brought out the chlorophyl. As he put it to Susan, with grim humour: "Makes us feel a bit green, hey?" He had supposed that the big dealers would ignore him; he had not expected what he found—active hostility. His first fight, for example, opened his eyes by closing one of them. A brief account of it must be chronicled. He had kept out of the auction rooms, like Christopher’s, but he frequented small sales, and became a menace to a ring of Hebrew dealers, who, hitherto, had managed such affairs with great executive ability entirely in their own interests. Quinney was well aware of their methods. At the sale proper prices were kept at the lowest possible level. The real buying and selling took place afterwards in a private room at some neighbouring tavern. Quinney, who was invited to join the "ring," knew all about "knock-outs," and decided that he would not identify himself with such an unsavoury crowd. Tomlin warned him. "Leave those swine alone, Joe." "I mean to, old man." "But remember this, they won’t leave you alone, the dirty dogs!" They didn’t. Upon the eve of a small sale in the suburbs, held at the house of a bankrupt merchant, who had bought, in the days of his prosperity, some good bits of furniture, Quinney was "nosing round," as he called it, by himself, jotting down in a notebook the prices he was prepared to pay on the morrow. Suddenly there entered a truculent-looking young man of the type that may be seen boxing at Wonderland, which is just off the Whitechapel Road. He swaggered up to Quinney and said drawlingly: "Buyin’ against my crowd, you was, las’ week?" Quinney eyed him nervously, as he answered with spirit: "Your crowd, hey?" "I said my crowd. Want to join us?" "No, my lad, I don’t." "Why not?" "I’m rather careful about the company I keep, see?" The young man glanced round. They were quite alone. Then he hit Quinney hard. Our hero ducked ineffectively, and caught the blow on his left eye. Instantly he realized that his antagonist was what is called a "workman." Nevertheless he "set about him." In less than a minute the fine old adage which sets forth that right is greater than might was lamentably perverted. Quinney was left half senseless on a Turkey carpet which bore stains of the encounter, and his aggressor fled. Next day, Quinney remained at home, tended by Susan, who admitted that she felt like Jael, the wife of Heber, the Kenite. "Can’t you prosecute?" she asked indignantly. "Never saw the fellow before, never likely to see him again. Hired for the job, he was—earned his money, too."