He found himself in a large, airy room, lit by two windows and a broad skylight. The floor was covered with linoleum. But it was the furniture that first attracted his attention. In a farther corner of the room was a circular wooden ceiling, supported by four narrow pillars. From the centre of this hung a ball, about the size of an ordinary football. To the left, suspended from a beam, was an enormous leather bolster. On the floor, underneath a table bearing several pairs of boxing-gloves, a skipping-rope, and some wooden dumb-bells, was something that looked like a dozen Association footballs rolled into one. All the rest of the room, a space some few yards square, was bare of furniture. In this space a small sweater-clad youth, with a head of light hair cropped very short, was darting about and ducking and hitting out with both hands at nothing, with such a serious, earnest expression on his face that Sheen could not help smiling. On a chair by one of the windows Mr Joe Bevan was sitting, with a watch in his hand. As Sheen entered the room the earnest young man made a sudden dash at him. The next moment he seemed to be in a sort of heavy shower of fists. They whizzed past his ear, flashed up from below within an inch of his nose, and tapped him caressingly on the waistcoat. Just as the shower was at its heaviest his assailant darted away again, side-stepped an imaginary blow, ducked another, and came at him once more. None of the blows struck him, but it was with more than a little pleasure that he heard Joe Bevan call "Time!" and saw the active young gentleman sink panting into a seat. "You and your games, Francis!" said Joe Bevan, reproachfully. "This is a young gentleman from the college come for tuition." "Gentleman--won't mind--little joke--take it in spirit which is--meant," said Francis, jerkily. Sheen hastened to assure him that he had not been offended. "You take your two minutes, Francis," said Mr Bevan, "and then have a turn with the ball. Come this way, Mr--" "Sheen." "Come this way, Mr Sheen, and I'll show you where to put on your things." Sheen had brought his football clothes with him. He had not put them on for a year. "That's the lad I was speaking of. Getting on prime, he is. Fit to fight for his life, as the saying is." "What was he doing when I came in?" "Oh, he always has three rounds like that every day. It teaches you to get about quick. You try it when you get back, Mr Sheen. Fancy you're fighting me." "Are you sure I'm not interrupting you in the middle of your work?" asked Sheen. "Not at all, sir, not at all. I just have to rub him down, and give him his shower-bath, and then he's finished for the day." Having donned his football clothes and returned to the gymnasium, Sheen found Francis in a chair, having his left leg vigorously rubbed by Mr Bevan. "You fon' of dargs?" inquired Francis affably, looking up as he came in.