They were a very singular trio. Each was known to him by sight; but what on earth the three could be doing together, and, above all, what they could expect from _him_, was a most inexplicable problem. The first was Sorley Wilson, the son of the owner of the Nonpareil Coalpit. He was a young blood of twenty, heir to a fortune, a keen sportsman, and down for the Easter Vacation from Magdalene College. He sat now upon the edge of the surgery table, looking in thoughtful silence at Montgomery and twisting the ends of his small, black, waxed moustache. The second was Purvis, the publican, owner of the chief beer-shop, and well known as the local bookmaker. He was a coarse, clean-shaven man, whose fiery face made a singular contrast with his ivory-white bald head. He had shrewd, light-blue eyes with foxy lashes, and he also leaned forward in silence from his chair, a fat, red hand upon either knee, and stared critically at the young assistant. So did the third visitor, Fawcett, the horse-breaker, who leaned back, his long, thin legs, with their boxcloth riding-gaiters, thrust out in front of him, tapping his protruding teeth with his riding-whip, with anxious thought in every line of his rugged, bony face. Publican, exquisite, and horse-breaker were all three equally silent, equally earnest, and equally critical. Montgomery seated in the midst of them, looked from one to the other. “Well, gentlemen?” he observed, but no answer came. The position was embarrassing. “No,” said the horse-breaker, at last. “No. It’s off. It’s nowt.” “Stand oop, lad; let’s see thee standin’.” It was the publican who spoke. Montgomery obeyed. He would learn all about it, no doubt, if he were patient. He stood up and turned slowly round, as if in front of his tailor. “It’s off! It’s off!” cried the horse-breaker. “Why, mon, the Master would break him over his knee.” “Oh, that be hanged for a yarn!” said the young Cantab. “You can drop out if you like, Fawcett, but I’ll see this thing through, if I have to do it alone. I don’t hedge a penny. I like the cut of him a great deal better than I liked Ted Barton.” “Look at Barton’s shoulders, Mr. Wilson.” “Lumpiness isn’t always strength. Give me nerve and fire and breed. That’s what wins.” “Ay, sir, you have it theer--you have it theer!” said the fat, red-faced publican, in a thick suety voice. “It’s the same wi’ poops. Get ’em clean-bred an’ fine, an’ they’ll yark the thick ’uns--yark ’em out o’ their skins.” “He’s ten good pund on the light side,” growled the horse-breaker. “He’s a welter weight, anyhow.” “A hundred and thirty.” “A hundred and fifty, if he’s an ounce.” “Well, the Master doesn’t scale much more than that.” “A hundred and seventy-five.” “That was when he was hog-fat and living high. Work the grease out of him and I lay there’s no great difference between them. Have you been weighed lately, Mr. Montgomery?”