"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