Dartmore was still gloriously redolent of Oxford: his companions were all
extracts from Christchurch; and his favourite occupations were boxing and
hunting--scenes at the Fives' Court--nights in the Cider Cellar--and
mornings at Bowstreet. Figure to yourself a fitter companion for the hero
and writer of these adventures! The table was covered with boxing gloves,
single sticks, two ponderous pair of dumb bells, a large pewter pot of
porter, and four foils; one snapped in the middle.

"Well," cried Dartmore, to two strapping youths, with their coats off,
"which was the conqueror?"

"Oh, it is not yet decided," was the answer; and forthwith the bigger one
hit the lesser a blow, with his boxing glove, heavy enough to have felled
Ulysses, who, if I recollect aright, was rather 'a game blood' in such
encounters.

This slight salute was forthwith the prelude to an encounter, which the
whole train crowded round to witness. I, among the rest, pretending an
equal ardour, and an equal interest, and hiding, like many persons in a
similar predicament, a most trembling spirit beneath a most valorous
exterior.

When the match (which terminated in favour of the lesser champion) was
over, "Come, Pelham," said Dartmore, "let me take up the gloves with
you?"

"You are too good!" said I, for the first time using my drawing-room
drawl. A wink and a grin went round the room.

"Well, then, will you fence with Staunton, or play at single sticks with