SUCH demoniac attributes as Mr. Andy Dunne might possess lurked in the background on the occasion of Darcy’s first visit. Smothering her misgivings, the girl had mounted the steps of the old-fashioned house just off Sixth Avenue, undistinguished by any sign or symbol of the mystic activities within, and presented Gloria’s letter. Mr. Dunne revealed himself as a taciturn gentleman in funereal trousers and a blue sweater, who suggested facially an athletic monk of reserved and misanthropic tendency. He led her into a severely business-like office sparsely furnished with a desk and two hard and muscular-looking chairs, with liberal wall ornamentations of the championship Baltimore “Orioles” (“A. Dunne, 2d b.” in clear script on the frame), pictures of Mr. Dunne and other worthies in sundry impressive and hostile postures, and a large photograph signed, with a noble flourish, “Yours truly, John L. Sullivan.” It was the crowning glory of Mr. Dunne’s professional career that he had trained the “Big Feller” for his final championship fight. Having perused his former pupil’s brief epistle, Mr. Dunne cast an appraising glance over the neophyte. “Full course?” he inquired. “Yes, please.” “How long?” “Six months.” The girl produced a roll of bills and laid them on the desk. Mr. Dunne counted them twice. With a stony face and in a highly correct hand he made out a receipt. “Six months. Paid in advance,” he stated. “D’je meanter pay it all?” “Y-y-yes. Isn’t it usual?” queried Darcy, wondering whether she was shattering some conventionality of this unknown world. “Nope. Three’s usual. What’s the big idea?” “Gloria—that is Miss Greene told me to pay it all in advance because if I didn’t I might get tired of it and back out. But I shan’t.” From between Mr. Dunne’s hard-set lips issued a vowel-less monosyllable such as might be enunciated by a contemplative bulldog engaged in self-communion. “Grmph!” said Mr. Dunne, which, Darcy decided, might mean much or little. “Friend o’ Miss Greene’s?” he inquired after a pause. “Yes.” “_Some_ lady!” said Mr. Dunne with an approach to enthusiasm which Darcy was never thereafter to experience from his repressive spirit, save only when he spoke of the “Big Feller.” “Isn’t she wonderful!” acquiesced Darcy. Mr. Dunne rubbed his lower lip with a reminiscent and almost romantic gleam in his heavy-browed eyes, and the girl with difficulty suppressed a query as to whether that was the spot whereon Gloria had landed her triumphant left. Emerging from his reverie he issued his first direction. “Stannup, please.” Darcy rose and stood, consciously loppish, while the trainer circumnavigated her twice. “Grmph!” he grunted. “When yah wanna begin?” “At once, please.” “Gotta outfit?” “No.” “Gittit.” He thrust a typed list into her hand. “How much you weigh?” “I don’t know.” “Yah don’t _know?_” “Somewhere about a hundred and fifty, I suppose.”