Dam was disposed to agree with him in his heart, but he had no fear. The feeling that _his_ brief innings had come—after the Snake had had Its will of him for a dozen years—swallowed up all other feelings. Coxe Major stepped into the ring. “I announce a friendly boxing contest between Harberth of the Fifth, nine stone seven, and Funky Warren (said to be no longer Funky) of Barton’s House, weight not worth mentioning,” he declaimed. “Are the gloves all right,” called Cokeson (whose father owned racehorses, was a pillar of the National Sporting Club, and deeply interested in the welfare of a certain sporting newspaper). “No fault can be found with Warren’s gloves,” said Shanner, coming over to Dam. “There’s nothing wrong with the gloves here,” added Delorme, after visiting Harberth’s corner. This was the less remarkable in that there were no gloves whatsoever. Presumably the fiction of a “friendly boxing contest” was to be stoutly maintained. The crowd of delighted boys laughed. “Then come here, both of you,” said Cokeson. The combatants complied. “Don’t hold and hit. Don’t butt nor trip. Don’t clinch. Don’t use knee, elbow, nor shoulder. When I call ‘Break away,’ break without hitting. If you do any of these things you will be jolly well disqualified. Fight fair and God have mercy on your souls.” To Dam it seemed that the advice was superfluous—and of God’s mercy on his soul he had had experience. Returning to their corners, the two stripped to the waist and sat ready, arrayed in shorts and gymnasium shoes. Seen thus, they looked most unevenly matched, Harberth looking still bigger for undressing and Dam even smaller. But, as the knowing Coxe Major observed, what there was of Dam was in the right place—and was muscle. Certainly he was finely made. “Seconds out of the ring. _Time!_” called the time-keeper and Dam sprang to his feet and ran at Harberth who swung a mighty round-arm blow at his face as Dam ducked and smote him hard and true just below the breast-bone and fairly on the “mark “. The bully’s grunt of anguish was drowned in howls of “Shake hands!” “They haven’t shaken hands!” “Stop! Stop the fight,” shouted Cokeson, and as they backed from each other he inquired with anger and reproach in his voice:— “Is this a friendly boxing-contest or a vulgar fight?” adding, “Get to your corners and when _Time_ is called, shake hands and then begin.” Turning to the audience he continued in a lordly and injured manner: “And there is only _one_ Referee, gentlemen, please. Keep silence or I shall stop the fight—I mean—the friendly boxing contest.” As Dam sat down Delorme whispered:— “Splendid! _In_fighting is your tip. Duck and go for the body every time. He knows nothing of boxing I should say. Tire him—and remember that if he gets you with a swing like that you’re out.”