none the worse for being liars. Sam Ducket bet Ebony Muley in twenty
minutes."

"Yes," said the novice, scornfully; "and what is Ebony Muley? A
wretched old nigger nearly sixty years old, who is drunk seven days
in the week, and would sell a fight for a glass of brandy! Ducket
ought to have knocked him out of time in seventy seconds. Ducket has
no science."

"Not a bit," said Ned. "But he has lots of game."

"Pshaw! Come, now, Ned; you know as well as I do that that is one of
the stalest commonplaces going. If a fellow knows how to box, they
always say he has science but no pluck. If he doesn't know his right
hand from his left, they say that he isn't clever but that he is
full of game."

Skene looked with secret wonder at his pupil, whose powers of
observation and expression sometimes seemed to him almost to rival
those of Mrs. Skene. "Sam was saying something like that to-day," he
remarked. "He says you're only a sparrer, and that you'd fall down
with fright if you was put into a twenty-four-foot ring."

The novice flushed. "I wish I had been here when Sum Ducket said
that."

"Why, what could you ha' done to him?" said Skene, his small eyes
twinkling.

"I'd have punched his head; that's what I could and would have done