and last remedy for clearing the mind known to the Honorable Geoffrey
Delamayn--namely, two pair of boxing-gloves in a carpet-bag.

The gentleman and the prize-fighter put on the gloves, and faced each
other in the classically correct posture of pugilistic defense. "None of
your play, mind!" growled Geoffrey. "Fight, you beggar, as if you were
in the Ring again with orders to win." No man knew better than the great
and terrible Crouch what real fighting meant, and what heavy blows
might be given even with such apparently harmless weapons as stuffed
and padded gloves. He pretended, and only pretended, to comply with his
patron's request. Geoffrey rewarded him for his polite forbearance by
knocking him down. The great and terrible rose with unruffled composure.
"Well hit, Sir!" he said. "Try it with the other hand now." Geoffrey's
temper was not under similar control. Invoking everlasting destruction
on the frequently-blackened eyes of Crouch, he threatened instant
withdrawal of his patronage and support unless the polite pugilist
hit, then and there, as hard as he could. The hero of a hundred fights
quailed at the dreadful prospect. "I've got a family to support,"
remarked Crouch. "If you _will_ have it, Sir--there it is!" The fall of
Geoffrey followed, and shook the house. He was on his legs again in an
instant--not satisfied even yet. "None of your body-hitting!" he roared.
"Stick to my head. Thunder and lightning! explosion and blood! Knock it
out of me! Stick to the head!" Obedient Crouch stuck to the head.
The two gave and took blows which would have stunned--possibly have
killed--any civilized member of the community. Now on one side of
his patron's iron skull, and now on the other, the hammering of the
prize-fighter's gloves fell, thump upon thump, horrible to hear--until
even Geoffrey himself had had enough of it. "Thank you, Crouch," he
said, speaking civilly to the man for the first time. "That will do. I
feel nice and clear again." He shook his head two or three times, he was