“Why, yes,” said he. “Yes, certainly I remember you. It’s Mr Nicholson. You used to come in and box with us when we were training at Harrow, and again at Brighton.”
Toby tapped the little man upon the shoulder with an emphatic forefinger.
“I used to come in and box with you and those other fellows wherever and whenever I could. You taught me more about boxing than any man of my size I ever came up against. Do you remember——” He broke off. “My word, that was a great show to-night, Johnny. I wouldn’t have missed that fight for worlds. I want to congratulate you.”
He stopped. Johnny was looking at him with quaint solemnity. Then the thought of Bobbie seemed to recur to him, and as he turned to fix him with a reproachful eye Johnny said:
“This is my son.”
Toby gave not the least sign of surprise. The closest observer could not have told whether he had already guessed. His whole bearing was guided by an affectionate appreciation of the reasons which had prompted Johnny to speak so shyly. So he looked at Bobbie with a slow smile, and then back again at the straight-backed little man whom they had thought too old to fight. Johnny stood with his soft hat set squarely upon his head in a way that spoke of quiet respectability. His solemn countenance was a little anxious and one eye decidedly discoloured.
“Then I am very, very glad,” said Toby, “more glad than I can say, that you sent him to Harley.”
“It was because I knew that it was your old school,” said Johnny, with a little nod of the head, “that I did send him there. And is it that you are a master there yourself now?”
“Until a few weeks ago I was games master there.”
“Then you have left?”