," said Gerald, disappearing. In
the anteroom he rung a bell, and to the boy who leisurely answered its
summons he said rapidly:

"Run over to the club and find Mr. Winslow, Mr. Clark, and whoever
else is in the smoking room, and tell them from me to cone over to the
gymnasium. Tell them there's some fun on."

Then he returned to the gymnasium floor, where Murphy was answering
Orde's questions as to the apparatus. While the two men were pulling on
the gloves, Gerald managed a word apart with the trainer.

"Can you do him, Murph?" he whispered.

"Sure!" said the handler. "Them kind's always as slow as dray-horses.
They gets muscle-bound."

"Give it to him," said Gerald, "but don't kill him. He's a friend of
mine."

Then he stepped back, the same joy in his soul that inspires a
riverman when he encounters a high-banker; a hunter when he takes out a
greenhorn, or a cowboy as he watches the tenderfoot about to climb the
bronco.

"Time!" said he.

The first round was sharp. When Gerald called the end, Orde grinned at
him cheerfully.

"Don't look like I was much at this game, does it?" said he. "I wouldn't
pull down many persimmons out of that tree. Your confounded man's too
lively; I couldn't hit him with a shotgun."

Orde had stood like a rock, his feet planted to the floor, while Murphy
had circled around him hitting at will. Orde hit back, but without
landing. Nevertheless Murphy, when questioned apart, did not seem
satisfied.

"The man's pig-iron," said he. "I punched him plenty hard enough, and it
didn't seem to jar him."

The gallery at one end the running track had by flow half filled with
interested spectators.

"Time!" called Gerald for round two.

This time Murphy went in more viciously, aiming and measuring his blows
accurately. Orde stood as before, a humourous smile of self-depreciation
on his face, hitting back at the elusive Murphy, but without much
effect, his feet never stirring in their tracks. The handler used his
best tactics and landed almost at will, but without apparent damage. He
grew ugly--finally lost his head.

"Well, if ye will have it!" he muttered, and aimed what was intended as
a knockout blow.

Gerald uttered a half cry of warning as his practised eye caught
Murphy's intention. The blow landed. Orde's head snapped back, but to
the surprise of every one the punch had no other effect, and a quick
exchange of infighting sent Murphy staggering back from the encounter.
The s