The velvet-breeched one coolly surveyed his handiwork, still on his guard, but obviously not relishing his position.
"Nice one, sir!" "Well played!" "Neat, Gussie, dear!" were a few of the exclamations greeting his success in the first round.
Again Sam rose to attack, though plainly preoccupied with taking astronomical observations.
"Go it, little 'un. Never say yer muvver bred a jibber," some one called to him encouragingly.
More cautiously, as he thought, Sam hit out wildly with his right, managed to disarrange a rather pretty cluster of stars which dangled before his eyes, and, of course, missed his foe again. Then he accepted another little tap on the nose, but there was steel in the blow.
"Strewth!" he groaned under his breath involuntarily.
"Chuck it, you bally little fool," said the velvet-garbed boxer soothingly. "Shake hands and be friends. You're too full of guts to be called scum."
Rather sheepishly, Sam reluctantly did so.
"Wot's yer blinkin' nyme?" he asked admiringly, in a low voice, mopping at his bleeding nose with an enormous mottled red-and-white handkerchief.
"Never mind my name just now. You may call me Bert if you like."