"I want to whiten them," said Cashel, impatiently throwing the lemon
under the grate; "but it's no use; I can't go about with my fists
like a nigger's. I'll go up to London to-morrow and buy a pair of
gloves."

"What! Real gloves? Wearin' gloves?"

"You thundering old lunatic," said Cashel, rising and putting on his
hat; "is it likely that I want a pair of mufflers? Perhaps YOU think
you could teach me something with them. Ha! ha! By-the-bye--now
mind this, Mellish--don't let it out down here that I'm a fighting
man. Do you hear?"

"Me let it out!" cried Mellish, indignantly. "Is it likely? Now, I
asts you, Cashel Byron, is it likely?"

"Likely or not, don't do it," said Cashel. "You might get talking
with some of the chaps about the castle stables. They are generous
with their liquor when they can get sporting news for it."

Mellish looked at him reproachfully, and Cashel turned towards the
door. This movement changed the trainer's sense of injury into
anxiety. He renewed his remonstrances as to the folly of venturing
into the night air, and cited many examples of pugilists who had
suffered defeat in consequence of neglecting the counsel of their
trainers. Cashel expressed his disbelief in these anecdotes in brief
and personal terms; and at last Mellish had to content himself with
proposing to limit the duration of the walk to half an hour.

"Perhaps I will come back in half an hour," said Cashel, "and