if it would change when he sent
the Little Missioner bowling over in the snow, which he was quite sure
to do, even if he was careful. He was a splendid boxer. In the days of
his practice he had struck a terrific blow for his weight. At the
Athletic Club he had been noted for a subtle strategy and a cleverness
of defence that were his own. But he felt that he had grown rusty during
the past year and a half. This thought was in his mind when he tapped
the Missioner on the end of his ruddy nose. They squared away in the
moonlight, eight inches deep in the snow, and there was a joyous and
eager light in Father Roland's eyes. The tap on his nose did not dim it.
His teeth gleamed, even as David's gloves went _plunk_, _plunk_, against
his nose again. Mukoki, still grinning like a carven thing, chuckled
audibly. David pranced carelessly about the Little Missioner, poking him
beautifully as he offered suggestions and criticism.

"You should protect your nose, _mon Pere_"--_plunk_! "And the pit of
your stomach"--_plunk_! "And also your ears"--_plunk_, _plunk_! "But
especially your nose, _mon Pere_"--_plunk_, _plunk_!

"And sometimes the tip of your jaw, David," gurgled Father Roland, and
for a few moments night closed in darkly about David.

When he came fully into his senses again he was sitting in the snow,
with the Little Missioner bending over him anxiously, and Mukoki
grinning down at him like a fiend.

"Dear Heaven, forgive me!" he heard Father Roland saying. "I didn't mean
it so hard, David--I didn't! But oh, man, it was such a chance--such a
beautiful chance! And now I've spoiled it. I've spoiled our fun."

"Not unless you're--tired," said David, getting up on his feet. "You
took me at a disadvantage, _mon Pere_. I thought you were green."

"And you were pulverizing my nose," apologized Father Roland.

They went at it again, and this time David spared none of his caution,
and offered no advice, and the Missioner no longer posed, but became
suddenly as elusive and as agile as a cat. David was amazed, but he
wasted no breath to demand an explanation. Father Roland was parrying
his straight blows like an adept. Three times in as many minutes he felt
the sting of the Missioner's glove in his face. In straight-away boxing,
without the finer tricks and artifice of the game, he was soon convinced
that the forest man was almost his match. Little by little he began to
exert the cleverness of his training. At the end of ten