If you had been in Berlin in 1916, you would have seen Peter; for he had been persuaded, much against his will, to uphold the honour of Great Britain in the middle-weights at the Olympic Games. He got a position in the papers as "P. Riley, disqualified"—the result, he could only suppose, of his folly in allowing his opponent to butt him in the stomach. He was both annoyed and amused about it; offered to fight his vanquisher any time in England; and privately thanked Heaven that he could now get back to London in time for his favourite sister's wedding.
But he didn't. The English trainer, who had been sent, at the public expense, to America for a year, to study the proper methods, got hold of him.
"I've been watching you, young man," he said. "You'll have to give yourself up to me now. You're the coming champion."
"I'm sorry," said Peter politely, "but I shan't be fighting again."
"Fighting!" said the trainer scornfully. "Don't you worry; I'll take good care that you don't fight any more. The event you're going to win is 'Pushing the Chisel.' I've been watching you, and you've got the most perfect neck and calf-muscles for it I've ever seen. No more fighting for you, my boy; nor cricket, nor anything else. I'm not going to let you spoil those muscles."
"I don't think I've ever pushed the Chisel," said Peter. "Besides, it's over, isn't it?"
"Over? Of course it's over, and that confounded American won. 'Poor old England,' as all the papers said."
"Then it's too late to begin to practise," said Peter thankfully.
"Well, it's too late for the 1920 games. But we can do a lot in eight years, and I think I can get you fit for the 1924 games at Pekin."
Peter stared at him in amazement.