"In that case don't you think we'd better pull the blind down, or people walking on the terrace will be able to see the fun? If we are going to make asses of ourselves, we may as well do it, as far as possible, in private."
Mr. Pratt pulled the blind down. The sun was shining outside. The room was still quite light.
"I guess," said Mr. Pratt, "we had better clear the furniture out of the middle of the room."
Mr. Pownceby assisted him in doing so, what little there was to clear. The bottle of champagne and the two glasses they placed with the revolver on the mantelshelf. They then proceeded to strip. As they were doing so Mr. Pownceby asked a question.
"How shall we manage about time?"
"We will call time when we feel we want it. You understand, this is not only a fight; it's a whipping. I'm whipping you."
Mr. Pownceby smiled as he answered: "I understand exactly."
When they were in position there was not much, so far as appearance went, for a lover of the "fancy" to choose between the two. Now that they were peeled, both seemed thoroughly fit--as fit almost as though they had been trained. Mr. Pownceby was fair, Mr. Pratt was dark; that was about the only difference. Both would have turned the scale at something near eleven stone, and both measured something under five foot eight. Nor did it take long to show that both could use their hands. There was none of that waiting for each other which so often tries the patience of the spectators round a ring. Mr. Pratt came at once to business; with, perhaps, rather too much self-confidence. He was apparently under the impression that it was going to be a case of whipping his opponent from the first; which was the reason, doubtless, that Mr. Pownceby succeeded in returning the compliment which had been paid himself, and landing Mr. Pratt upon his back. That gentleman seemed surprised.
"I say," he asked, lying where he had fallen, "what's this?"
Mr. Pownceby replied politely: "I hope I haven't hurt you?"