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"
"
This gentleman, the champion lightweight--"
Own up, Charlie," said the young man with the gaiters, looking up for a
moment. "And don't go a-dragging in your betters. It's fair and square.
You can't get out of it."
"
"
Was it this--gent?" began Mr. Hoopdriver.
Of course," said the young man in the white tie, "when it comes to
talking of wiping boots--"
"I'm not talking; I'm going to do it," said Mr. Hoopdriver.
He looked round at the meeting. They were no longer antagonists; they
were spectators. He would have to go through with it now. But this tone
of personal aggression on the maker of the remark had somehow got rid of
the oppressive feeling of Hoopdriver contra mundum. Apparently, he would
have to fight someone. Would he get a black eye? Would he get very much
hurt? Pray goodness it wasn't that sturdy chap in the gaiters! Should
he rise and begin? What would she think if he brought a black eye to
breakfast to-morrow? "Is this the man?" said Mr. Hoopdriver, with a
business-like calm, and arms more angular than ever.
"
Eat 'im!" said the little man with the beard; "eat 'im straight orf."
Steady on!" said the young man in the white tie. "Steady on a minute.
"
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