tion of this
kind is a valuable asset to an inn, and the boxing world thought highly
of it, in spite of the fact that it was off the beaten track. Certainly
the luck of the "Blue Boar" had been surprising.

Sheen pulled steadily up stream on the appointed day, and after half an
hour's work found himself opposite the little landing-stage at the foot
of the inn lawn.

His journey had not been free from adventure. On his way to the town he
had almost run into Mr Templar, and but for the lucky accident of that
gentleman's short sight must have been discovered. He had reached the
landing-stage in safety, but he had not felt comfortable until he was
well out of sight of the town. It was fortunate for him in the present
case that he was being left so severely alone by the school. It was an
advantage that nobody took the least interest in his goings and
comings.

Having moored his boat and proceeded to the inn, he was directed
upstairs by the landlord, who was an enlarged and coloured edition of
his brother. From the other side of the gymnasium door came an
unceasing and mysterious shuffling sound.

He tapped at the door and went in.

He found himself in a large, airy room, lit by two windows and a broad
skylight. The floor was covered with linoleum. But it was the furniture
that first attracted his attention. In a farther corner of the room was
a circular wooden ceiling, supported by four narrow pillars. From the
centre of this hung a ball, about the size of an ordinary football. To
the left, suspended from a beam, was an enormous leather bolster. On
the floor, underneath a table bearing several pairs of boxing-gloves, a
skipping-rope, and some wooden dumb-bells, was something that looked
like a dozen Association footballs rolled into one. All the rest of the
room, a space some few yards square, was bare of furniture. In this
space a small sweater-clad youth, with a head of light hair cropped
very short, was darting about and ducking and hitting out with both
hands at nothing, with such a serious, earnest expression on his face
that Sheen could not help smiling. On a chair by one of the windows Mr
Joe Bevan was sitting, with a watch in his hand.

As Sheen entered the room the earnest young man made a sudden dash at
him. The next moment he seemed to be in a sort of heavy shower of
fists. They whizzed past his ear, flashed up from below within an inch
of his nose, and tapped him caressingly on the waistcoat. Just as the