Anthony looked round at him. It was new sort of talk, this. Young Mowbray flushed.
"I wonder if you could get to like me," he said. "I liked you so for what you said to Penlove about your thinking it fine of your mother to go out cleaning. I haven't got any friends among the boys; not real ones. They think me a muff."
"I don't," answered Anthony. "I think you talk awfully interestingly. I'd like tremendously to be friends."
Mowbray flushed again, with pleasure this time. "Won't keep you now," he said. "I do hope you'll win."
Anthony never left more than he could help to chance. For the next week all his spare time was passed in the company of Mr. Dobb, who took upon himself the duties not only of instructor but of trainer.
On the following Friday afternoon Anthony stepped into the ring with feelings of pleasurable anticipation.
"Don't you go in feeling angry or savage," had been Mr. Dobb's parting instruction. "Nothing interferes with a man's wind more than getting mad. Just walk into him as if you loved him and were doing it for the glory of God."
The chorus of opinion afterwards was that it had
