“Ever box much?” Gerald asked Orde.
“Box?” Orde laughed. “Never had time for that sort of thing. Had the gloves on a few times.”
“Where did you get your training, sir?” asked the handler.
“My training?” repeated Orde, puzzled. “Oh, I see! I was always pretty heavy, and I suppose the work on the river keeps a man in pretty good shape.”
Gerald's languor had vanished, and a glint had appeared in his eye that would have reminded Orde of Miss Bishop's most mischievous mood could he have seen it.
“Put on the gloves with Murphy,” he suggested, “will you? I'd like to see you two at it.”
“Surely,” agreed Orde good-naturedly. “I'm not much good at it, but I'd just as soon try.” He was evidently not in the least afraid to meet the handler, though as evidently without much confidence in his own skill.
“All right; I'll be with you in a second,” said Gerald, disappearing. In the anteroom he rung a bell, and to the boy who leisurely answered its summons he said rapidly:
“Run over to the club and find Mr. Winslow, Mr. Clark, and whoever else is in the smoking room, and tell them from me to come over to the gymnasium. Tell them there's some fun on.”
Then he returned to the gymnasium floor, where Murphy was answering Orde's questions as to the apparatus. While the two men were pulling on the gloves, Gerald managed a word apart with the trainer.