“But there’s some of that which he’d like well to pull off and leave behind wi’ his shirt,” said Purvis. “I hear they’ve had a rare job to get him to drop his beer, and if it had not been for that great red-headed wench of his they’d never ha’ done it. She fair scratted the face off a potman that had brought him a gallon from t’ ‘Chequers.’ They say the hussy is his sparrin’ partner, as well as his sweetheart, and that his poor wife is just breakin’ her heart over it. Hullo, young ’un, what do you want?” The door of the gymnasium had opened and a lad, about sixteen, grimy and black with soot and iron, stepped into the yellow glare of the oil lamp. Ted Barton seized him by the collar. “See here, thou yoong whelp, this is private, and we want noan o’ thy spyin’!” “But I maun speak to Mr. Wilson.” The young Cantab stepped forward. “Well, my lad, what is it?” “It’s aboot t’ fight, Mr. Wilson, sir. I wanted to tell your mon somethin’ aboot t’ Maister.” “We’ve no time to listen to gossip, my boy. We know all about the Master.” “But thou doan’t, sir. Nobody knows but me and mother, and we thought as we’d like thy mon to know, sir, for we want him to fair bray him.” “Oh, you want the Master fair brayed, do you? So do we. Well, what have you to say?” “Is this your mon, sir?” “Well, suppose it is?” “Then it’s him I want to tell aboot it. T’ Maister is blind o’ the left eye.” “Nonsense!” “It’s true, sir. Not stone blind, but rarely fogged. He keeps it secret, but mother knows, and so do I. If thou slip him on the left side he can’t cop thee. Thou’ll find it right as I tell thee. And mark him when he sinks his right. ’Tis his best blow, his right upper-cut. T’ Maister’s finisher, they ca’ it at t’ works. It’s a turble blow when it do come home.” “Thank you, my boy. This is information worth having about his sight,” said Wilson. “How came you to know so much? Who are you?” “I’m his son, sir.” Wilson whistled. “And who sent you to us?” “My mother. I maun get back to her again.” “Take this half-crown.” “No, sir, I don’t seek money in comin’ here. I do it--” “For love?” suggested the publican. “For hate!” said the boy, and darted off into the darkness. “Seems to me t’ red-headed wench may do him more harm than good, after all,” remarked the publican. “And now, Mr. Montgomery, sir, you’ve done enough for this evenin’, an’ a nine-hours’ sleep is the best trainin’ before a battle. Happen this time to-morrow night you’ll be safe back again with your 100 pound in your pocket.” II