"By Jove, you're right!" Darwen was very thoughtful for some minutes. "Yes," he said at length. "I keep myself fit because the mater brought me up that way, and fitness means so much."
"To a station man it usually means all the difference between success and failure; you remember how that shock I got upset me, for some time Thompson thought I was no good." Carstairs was thinking that if it had not been for that shock their positions at that moment might have been reversed.
"That is so, particularly if he's got a crowd like Donovan and Co. to deal with. Do you know, honestly I never in all my life experienced such a thrill of exquisite pleasure as when I exchanged pistol shots with that poor devil on the stairs that night; that's fitness, you know, simply fitness. I'm in the pink of condition." His eyes sparkled like living jewels.
Carstairs looked at him with open admiration. "You are fit," he said.
They were passing St James' gymnasium, a sudden idea seemed to seize Darwen.
"Come on in," he said, "and let's have a turn with the gloves. I've never had a turn with you."
"Alright," Carstairs answered.
So they went inside. The place was empty, so they had it to themselves; they changed and donned boxing gloves. They looked a superb pair of men as they stood up facing each other, in long flannel trousers and singlets; Carstairs was a trifle shorter and a trifle heavier; neither of them was an inch under six feet. For half an hour they boxed, hitting fast and furious, and although Carstairs was as quick as a panther, Darwen was quicker, and had distinctly the best of the bout.
"By Jove, old chap! You do put 'em in," he observed, as Carstairs landed a heavy right hander.
"Yours are fairly hefty, too," Carstairs answered, as Darwen knocked him against the wall.