It was a critical moment as the burly Bull came down the room. Had he done so five minutes sooner Freckleton might have found himself single-handed. But already his genial banter had told among the more susceptible of his hearers, and he could count at any rate on fair play. For the rest, he had little anxiety.
“Wait a moment,” said he, rising to his feet, and motioning to Bull to wait: “Sociables, Bull wants to fight me. Do you want me to fight him?”
“Yes, yes,” shouted every one, delighted at the prospect of a fray, and many of them quite indifferent as to who conquered.
“Very well, gentlemen,” said the Hermit; “I will obey you on one condition, and one only.”
“What is it?” they shouted eagerly.
“This: that if I beat Bull, you make me your president; or, if you think it fairer, if I beat Bull first and then Spokes, you elect me. What do you say?”
The Hermit was staking high with a vengeance. Little had he dreamed, when he came down to have a little talk with the “Select Sociables,” of such a proposal. It was the sight of Bull walking down the room which had furnished the inspiration, and he was daring enough to seize the chance while he had it and risk all upon it.
In his secret heart he was not absolutely sure of vanquishing his opponent. For Bull was a noted fighting man, and had made his mark in Templeton. The Hermit had never fought in his life. And yet he knew a little about boxing. He was strong, cool, and sound of wind; and knew enough of human nature to avoid the least appearance of doubt or hesitation in a crisis like this.
“What do you say?” asked he.
“Rather! If you lick, we’ll make you president,” shouted the Club.