“‘The childhood shows the man,’” quoted the other. “To be sure. But, as he isn’t going to be a prize-fighter----” “Every true Christian, sir, is a prize-fighter. He champions the right in order to win heaven.” “Well, where was the right here?” “I regret to have to confess, sir, in an insulting expression about you, which he very properly resented.” “_Me_!” cried my uncle, amazed. Then suddenly he stumped across to where I stood, and patted my shoulder rather tremulously. “Well, well,” he said; “no doubt I’m a funny old fellow. So you stood up for old Uncle Jenico, Dicky?” His voice shook a little. I wriggled and flushed up crimson. “It was a lie!” I cried, choking; “and I’m going to fight him and lick him for it.” Mr. Sant struck in. “Broughton rules, sir, I pledge my word.” “Eh?” said my uncle. “Who’s Broughton, and what does he rule?” “I mean,” said Mr. Sant, “this little affair shall be conducted strictly according to the regulations of Broughton, the famous boxer.” “O!” exclaimed Uncle Jenico, palpably misled by the last word, and proportionately relieved. “O, to be sure! ‘Mufflers,’ you call ’em, I think?” “Yes, yes!” said Mr. Sant, hastily. “A contest of science, sir; no vulgar hammering;” and he repeated, with warm conviction, his little dissertation on the true moral courage. “If Richard, sir, don’t assert himself at the outset,” he ended with, “I won’t answer for his life here remaining endurable.” Perhaps this prospect of our moral banishment clinched the matter with Uncle Jenico, whose attachment to the place was becoming quite morbid. He stipulated only that the umpire should stop the fight the moment it might appear I was getting the worst of it. More or less satisfied on this point, he rubbed his hands, and rallied me on being the young gamecock I was. “I’ve given some thought, myself, to a new boxing-glove,” he confessed; “one with a little gong inside to record the hits, you know.” Mr. Sant lost no time in taking me in hand. He fashioned me a little pair of gloves out of some old ones of his own, and gave me half an hour’s exercise with them every day after lessons. I am not going to record the process. The result was the important thing. During all this interval, with the single exception of the morning following that of my encounter with Harry Harrier, I was left in peace by the village boys. On that morning, however, I again found myself in the midst of a little mob of them, who, emboldened by yesterday’s sport, were come to waylay me after school hours. I was not yet so proficient as to regard the situation with equanimity; when, behold! my enemy resolved it for me. He appeared suddenly in the midst, his knees and elbows in a lively state of agitation. One or two fell away, protesting, their hands caressing their injured parts. “Where be a coomen, ’ar-ree!” expostulated one boy, holding his palm to his ear.