days when champions had gone down before the might of his fist;
Barnabas, taller, slighter, but full of the supreme confidence of
youth. Moreover, he had not been the daily pupil of two such past
masters in the art for nothing; and now he brought to bear all his
father's craft and cunning, backed up by the lightning precision of
Natty Bell. In all his many hard-fought battles John Barty had ever
been accounted most dangerous when he smiled, and he was smiling now.
Twice Barnabas staggered back to the wall, and there was an ugly
smear upon his cheek, yet as they struck and parried, and feinted,
Barnabas, this quick-eyed, swift-footed Barnabas, was smiling also.
Thus, while they smiled upon and smote each other, the likeness
between them was more apparent than ever, only the smile of Barnabas
was the smile of youth, joyous, exuberant, unconquerable. Noting
which Experienced Age laughed short and fierce, and strode in to
strike Youth down--then came a rush of feet, the panting hiss of
breath, the shock of vicious blows, and John Barty, the unbeaten
ex-champion of all England, threw up his arms, staggered back the
length of the room, and went down with a crash.

For a moment Barnabas stood wide-eyed, panting, then ran towards him
with hands outstretched, but in that moment the door was flung open,
and Natty Bell stood between them, one hand upon the laboring breast
of Barnabas, the other stretched down to the fallen ex-champion.

"Man Jack," he exclaimed, in his strangely melodious voice.
"Oh, John!--John Barty, you as ever was the king o' the milling coves,
here's my hand, shake it. Lord, John, what a master o' the Game
we've made of our lad. He's stronger than you and quicker than ever
I was. Man Jack, 'twas as sweet, as neat, as pretty a knockdown as
ever we gave in our best days, John. Man Jack, 'tis proud you should