“One minute!” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “It wasn’t I began calling names.” (“Who did?” said the man with the chins.) “I’m not calling any of you dirty cads. Don’t run away with that impression. Only some person in this room made a remark that showed he wasn’t fit to wipe boots on, and, with all due deference to such gentlemen as _are_ gentlemen” (Mr. Hoopdriver looked round for moral support), “I want to know which it was.” “Meanin’?” said the fair young man in the white tie. “That I’m going to wipe my boots on ’im straight away,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, reverting to anger, if with a slight catch in his throat—than which threat of personal violence nothing had been further from his thoughts on entering the room. He said this because he could think of nothing else to say, and stuck out his elbows truculently to hide the sinking of his heart. It is curious how situations run away with us. “’Ullo, Charlie!” said the little man, and “My eye!” said the owner of the chins. “You’re going to wipe your boots on ’im?” said the fair young man, in a tone of mild surprise. “I am,” said Mr. Hoopdriver, with emphatic resolution, and glared in the young man’s face. “That’s fair and reasonable,” said the man in the velveteen jacket; “if you can.” The interest of the meeting seemed transferred to the young man in the white tie. “Of course, if you can’t find out which it is, I suppose you’re prepared to wipe your boots in a liberal way on everybody in the room,” said this young man, in the same tone of impersonal question. “This gentleman, the champion lightweight—” “Own up, Charlie,” said the young man with the gaiters, looking up for a moment. “And don’t go a-dragging in your betters. It’s fair and square. You can’t get out of it.” “Was it this—gent?” began Mr. Hoopdriver. “Of course,” said the young man in the white tie, “when it comes to talking of wiping boots—” “I’m not talking; I’m going to do it,” said Mr. Hoopdriver. He looked round at the meeting. They were no longer antagonists; they were spectators. He would have to go through with it now. But this tone of personal aggression on the maker of the remark had somehow got rid of the oppressive feeling of Hoopdriver _contra mundum_. Apparently, he would have to fight someone. Would he get a black eye? Would he get very much hurt? Pray goodness it wasn’t that sturdy chap in the gaiters! Should he rise and begin? What would she think if he brought a black eye to breakfast to-morrow? “Is this the man?” said Mr. Hoopdriver, with a business-like calm, and arms more angular than ever. “Eat ’im!” said the little man with the beard; “eat ’im straight orf.” “Steady on!” said the young man in the white tie. “Steady on a minute. If I did happen to say—” “You did, did you?” said Mr. Hoopdriver. “Backing out of it, Charlie?” said the young man with the gaiters. “Not a bit,” said Charlie. “Surely we can pass a bit of a joke—” “I’m going to teach you to keep your jokes to yourself,” said Mr. Hoopdriver.