Anthony was not an accomplished single-stick player; he had not a quick eye, and he had never possessed that application to sports which would render him a master in any. Satisfied if he did fairly well, and was matched with inferiors who either could not or would not defeat him, he had now small chance against the old man, who had been a skilful player in his youth--who, indeed, had stuck to his sports when he ought to have held to his studies. The old man held the stick between his hands over his head jauntily--carelessly, it seemed--but with perfect assurance; whereas Anthony struck about at random and rarely touched his antagonist. Anthony was in a bad temper--he faced the window; whereas Uncle Sol stood with his back to the light, and to the table, defending his soaked hat. Anthony was the assailant; whereas Sol remained on the defensive, with an amused expression in his glossy face, and giving vent at intervals to snatches of melody--showing his unconcern, and heightening his opponent's irritability, and causing him every moment to lose more control over his hand and stick. Once Anthony struck Uncle Sol on the side, and the thud would have showed how dead with wet the old man's coat was, even had not water squirted over the stick at the blow. "Well done, Tony! One for thee!" Then Mr. Gibbs brought his stick down with a sweep, and cut Anthony on the left shoulder. The sting and numbness roused Anthony's ire, and he made a furious attack on his antagonist, which was received with perfect equanimity and the hardly-broken strain of-- I sing of champions bold, That wrestled--not for gold. With ease, and without discontinuing his song, Sol caught a blow levelled at his skull, dealt with such force that Tony's hand was jarred by it. And all the cry Was Will Trefry, That he would win the day. So Will Trefry, huzzah! The ladies clap their hands and cry-- Trefry! Trefry, huzzah! Down came Sol's stick on his antagonist's right shoulder. "There, there! You are no match for me," laughed the old man. "Will you give over--and pull off my boots?" "Never!" shouted Anthony, and struck at him again, again ineffectually. "Look out, Tony! save your head!" The old man, by a dexterous back-handed blow, struck up Anthony's staff, and with a light stroke he touched his ear. He had no intention to hurt him, he might have cut open his head had he willed; but he never lost his good-humor, never took full advantage of the opportunities given him by the maladroitness of his antagonist. It was exasperating to the young man to be thus played with, trifled with by a man whom he despised, but who he felt was, at all events at single-stick, his master. "Hah!" shouted Anthony, triumphantly. His stick had caught in Sol's wig, and had whisked it off his skull, but instantly the old man with a sweep of his staff smote his stick from the hand of Anthony, leaving him totally disarmed.