to the art of boxing very kindly, but, by way of compensation, Allen
had skill enough for two. He was a splendid boxer, quick, neat,
scientific. He had been up to Aldershot three times, once as a
feather-weight and twice as a light-weight, and each time he had
returned with the silver medal.

As for Tony, he was more a fighter than a sparrer. When he paid a visit
to his uncle's house he boxed with Allen daily, and invariably got the
worst of it. Allen was too quick for him. But he was clever with his
hands. His supply of pluck was inexhaustible, and physically he was as
hard as nails.

'Is your ankle all right again, now?' he asked.

'Pretty well. It wasn't much of a sprain. Interfered with my training a
good bit, though. I ought by rights to be well under eleven stone.
You're all right, I suppose?'

'Not bad. Boxing takes it out of you more than footer or a race. I was
in good footer training long before I started to get fit for Aldershot.
But I think I ought to get along fairly well. Any idea who's in against
us?'

'Harrow, Felsted, Wellington. That's all, I think.'

'St Paul's?'

'No.'

'Good. Well, I hope your first man mops you up. I've a conscientious