"Don’t you worry. The colours be coming Monday. Of course I can’t ask you to wear mine; but they’re prettier far than David’s. ’Twas Mr. Fogo’s idea. I shall have the same as the mighty champion, Ben Caunt, once had." "I don’t want to hear nothing about it, and I pray to God every night on my knees that it may be stopped." "Well, you’ll be proud of one of us," he said. "I can’t expect you to want me to win; but you mustn’t be very much surprised if I do. This old Fogo finds I’ve got a bit of the right stuff in me; and for that matter, I’ve found it out myself. I take to it like a duck takes to water. I’ve always been fond of dancing--nobody knows that better than you--and dancing is very helpful to a fighter. To hit and get off without being hit back--that’s the whole art of prize-fighting, and I’m afraid I shall hit David twice to his once." Instantly the lover came to Madge’s heart, despite herself. "He doesn’t brag," she said. "He’s very quiet and humble about it. But maybe you’ll find he can hit too, Bartley, though I grant you he can’t dance." He laughed and left her then; and next day as the pugilist from Plymouth had to return home about his business, an experienced local called Pierce, from Kingsett Farm, near Crazywell, on Dartmoor, was prevailed upon to assist. He and Crocker set to steadily. But Pierce was nearly forty, and too small for Bartley; therefore the lord of the manor himself filled the breach. Not, indeed, that Sir Guy Flamank put on the gloves; but he found a large-limbed youth down for Christmas from Oxford, who was the heavy-weight champion at that seat of learning, and this skilful youngster gave Bartley some invaluable information. Little was known respecting David’s progress; but Elias Bowden made the acquaintance of ’Frosty-face,’ and provided this celebrity with one or two days’ sport on the warren. Mr. Fogo proved no mean shot, and among other game of a good mixed bag, two wood-pigeons and three golden plover fell to his borrowed weapon. He discussed the Prize Ring for the gratification of Mr. Bowden on this occasion, but though David’s father tried hard to learn how Bartley was coming on in his training, Mr. Fogo’s silence upon that theme exceeded even the customary taciturnity of the Warren House. He was only concerned with the growing rumours of organised interference, yet he assured Mr. Bowden that the fight would certainly come off, at a time and place to be arranged by him and Reuben Shillabeer.