Mr. Sant struck in.
“Broughton rules, sir, I pledge my word.”
“Eh?” said my uncle. “Who’s Broughton, and what does he rule?”
“I mean,” said Mr. Sant, “this little affair shall be conducted strictly according to the regulations of Broughton, the famous boxer.”
“O!” exclaimed Uncle Jenico, palpably misled by the last word, and proportionately relieved. “O, to be sure! ‘Mufflers,’ you call ’em, I think?”
“Yes, yes!” said Mr. Sant, hastily. “A contest of science, sir; no vulgar hammering;” and he repeated, with warm conviction, his little dissertation on the true moral courage.
“If Richard, sir, don’t assert himself at the outset,” he ended with, “I won’t answer for his life here remaining endurable.”
Perhaps this prospect of our moral banishment clinched the matter with Uncle Jenico, whose attachment to the place was becoming quite morbid. He stipulated only that the umpire should stop the fight the moment it might appear I was getting the worst of it. More or less satisfied on this point, he rubbed his hands, and rallied me on being the young gamecock I was.
“I’ve given some thought, myself, to a new boxing-glove,” he confessed; “one with a little gong inside to record the hits, you know.”
Mr. Sant lost no time in taking me in hand. He fashioned me a little pair of gloves out of some old ones of his own, and gave me half an hour’s exercise with them every day after lessons. I am not going to record the process. The result was the important thing.