eedings were quiet
and orderly, and there was no fear of interruption by the police.

Arrived at the scene of action, a ring was formed by the spectators
standing round the walls, which they did in a single row, for there was
plenty of room. Then Stoker strode into the middle of the room, pulled
off his coat, vest, and shirt, which he flung into a corner, and stood
up, stripped to the waist, like a genuine performer in the ring.
Charlie also threw off coat and vest, but retained his shirt--an old
striped cotton one in harmony with his other garments.

"I'm not a professional," he said, as he stepped forward; "you've no
objection, I suppose, to my keeping on my shirt?"

"None whatever," replied Stoker, with a patronising air; "p'r'aps it may
be as well for fear you should kitch cold."

Charlie smiled, and held out his hand--"You see," he said, "that at
least I understand the civilities of the ring."

There was an approving laugh at this as the champions shook hands and
stood on guard.

"I am quite willing even yet," said Charlie, while in this attitude, "to
settle this matter without fighting if you'll only agree to leave Zook
alone in future."

This was a clear showing of the white feather in the opinion of Stoker,
who replied with a thundering, "No!" and at the same moment made a
savage blow at Charlie's face.

Our hero was prepared for it. He put his head quickly to one side, let
the blow pass, and with his left hand lightly tapped the bridge of his
opponent's nose.

"Hah! a hammytoor!" exclaimed the ex-pugilist in some surprise.

Charlie said nothing, but replied with the grim smile with which in
school-days he had been wont to indicate that he meant mischief. The
smile passed quickly, however, for even at that moment he would gladly
have hailed a truce, so deeply did he feel what he conceived to be the
degradation of his position--a feeling which neither his disreputable
appearance nor his miserable associates had yet been able to produce.

But nothing was further from the intention of Stoker than a truce.
Savages usually attribute forbearance to cowardice. War to the knife
was in his heart, and he rushed at Charlie with a shower of slogging
blows, which were meant to end the fight at once. But they failed to do
so. Our hero nimbly evaded the blows, acting entirely on the defensive,
and when Stoker at length paused, panting, the hammytoor was standing
before him quite cool, and with the grim look