Straight from the shoulder a piston stroke was launched at O’Hagan. It was a blow with brawn to drive it, with science to direct it. It was aimed—and well—in accordance with ring traditions of the “knock-out.” But one who takes unwarrantable liberties with unknowns’ hats must be prepared for reprisals. O’Hagan is fond of showing his friends the tricks learned of Shashu Myuku of Nagasaki; he is equally prompt to demonstrate them to others. Without employing his right hand, which was engaged in holding the felt hat, he struck down the impending blow (any but a pupil of Myuku must have endeavoured to strike it _up_), thrust his left foot rapidly against his opponent’s advanced right shin, and, by a simple process of natural law the pugilist pitched forward on to the pavement, propelled by all the force of his own attacking impetus. Much shaken, and with a rivulet of blood trickling down his nose from a damaged forehead, he got upon his feet again. Captain O’Hagan deliberately hurled the bowler far out into the stream of traffic, and fixed his large eyes upon its white-faced owner. “One word,” he said, in that tone of suppressed ferocity wholly inimitable, “and I will throw you after it! You ape!” The dazed and much-insulted man glanced from a shapeless dark mass which, prior to the passage of a brewer’s traction-engine, had been a felt hat, to the face of O’Hagan; and began with his handkerchief to wipe blood from his wounds. O’Hagan cast his eyes upward to the legend: “J. Crichton, Newsagent,” and took the elder man by the arm. “A word with you, Mr. Crichton!” he said, sweeping that astonished old tradesman into the shop, and ignoring the knot of interested spectators gathered at the door. ————— II. “THE ART OF GENTLE THOUGHT.” A chair stood by the journal-strewn counter. “Sit down,” said O’Hagan kindly, “and answer a few questions! Who is that person whose hat I honoured?” The newsagent, who momentarily was expecting to awaken from this bad dream, shook his head ominously. “It’s Jem Parkins, sir,” he replied, with that respect bordering upon awe which O’Hagan inspires in the plebeian soul. “He’s got the _Blue Dragon_ now, but he’s ex-middleweight champion. There’ll be the devil to pay when he’s pulled hisself together, sir!” “Reserve your speculations, Mr. Crichton,” said O’Hagan, “and confine yourself to facts. The young lady on the bus—your daughter?” “Yes, sir.” “She takes after her mother.” Mr. Crichton stared. “Did you know Polly—Mrs. Crichton, sir?” “No. I was referring to your daughter’s good looks. She dresses neatly.” Mr. Crichton had something of the British tradesman’s independent spirit, and even the awe inspired by O’Hagan’s tremendous presence could not wholly smother his paternal resentment. “I’d have you know that Pamela’s a lady, sir! And I’d have——”