After he was big enough, he used to go to lodging-houses where men slept who were down and out. He knew that drink had brought them low, and he wanted to show them better things to do.
The saloon-keepers were against him from the start. He was depriving them of some of their best customers.
"You're spoiling our business," they grumbled.
At last they made up their minds they would "get" him.
They collected a "gang" and one night they locked the door, backed up against it, and shouted:
"Come on, young feller! We're goin' to fix you!"
They rolled up their sleeves, clenched their fists, and sailed into him full-tilt like a big, angry crowd of human bees.
Grenfell was ready for them. It was like a fight in the movies.
He had kept himself in fine condition, for he was in training to play football and he was known to be a first-rate boxer.
They flew at him, roaring to encourage one another. There were six or eight of them, but they were afraid of his fists.