But after a few moments he rose quickly, saying, "Let us do some real
work, dad."

He took up his violin. His father, who was used to his moods, without
question or remark proceeded to tune up. An hour's hard practice
followed, without word from either except as regarded the work in hand.

"I feel better now, dad," said the young man when they had finished.
"And now for a round with you."

"But what about your wind, boy? I don't like that asthma of yours this
afternoon."

"I am quite all right. It's quite gone. I feel sure it was the pollen
from the beaver meadow."

They cleared back the table and chairs from the centre of the room,
stripped to their shirts, put on the gloves and went at each other with
vim. Their style was similar, for the father had taught the son all
he knew, except that the father's was the fighting and the son's the
sparring style. To-night the roles appeared to be reversed, the son
pressing hard at the in-fighting, the father trusting to his foot work
and countering with the light touch of a man making points.

"You ARE boring in, aren't you?" said the father, stopping a fierce
rally.

"You are not playing up, dad," said his son. "I don't feel like soft
work to-night. Come to me!"