pairs by pieces of string, and hung by these
on nails stuck in the rafters, the latter being about twelve feet above
the floor. When a pair had to be lifted down, a long bamboo, with a
spike at right angles to the end, was placed under the string.

This particular customer was difficult to fit; pair after pair was
hooked down, but none were just what he wanted. As bad luck would have
it, he happened to look up as I was Endeavoring to get hold of a
particularly large pair which were hanging just over his head. The
connecting string broke, and one of the boots, iron heel-plate
downwards, caught him across the bridge of the nose and cut him to the
bone. For this purely accidental occurrence I was severely blamed, yet
I never could see that I was at fault.

Tom Simpson, the butcher, was a character in his way. He was a
middle-sized, wiry, foxy-colored man, with a squeaky voice. His habits
were retiring, and his manner was shy. He was, in fact, about the last
man one would have thought capable of "putting up" a fight. However,
a somewhat wide experience has taught me that appearances in this
connection are apt to be deceitful; the quiet, unassuming man is very
often a dangerous customer.

One Sunday afternoon Simpson and I were taking a stroll together. We
met Wolff, who had been my mate at "The Reef." Wolff was a man with the
appearance of enormous strength, but he was slow in movement and
muscle-bound. He very seldom touched alcohol, and the slightest
indulgence made him quarrelsome.

Wolff stopped me, and we had a conversation, about nothing in
particular. Simpson was in a hurry to get back to the scene of his
work, so he asked me if I were going on with him. Wolff, who evidently
had been drinking although he was by no means intoxicated resented
this, and made use of some very insulting language. Simpson made no
reply, so Wolff gave him a hard slap across the face. Simpson retreated
a few steps, rolled up his sleeves, and stood in an attitude of
defense. Wolff rushed at him like a furious bull, and I began to wonder
as to where I would be able to borrow a wheelbarrow for the purpose of
taking home the Simpson remains.

Then followed a most astounding spectacle. For a few minutes Simpson
acted strictly on the defensive, retreating before his antagonist and
guarding himself from the sledge-hammer blows. I noticed that he was
very smart on his feet always a good sign in a boxing-match and that he
was cunningly drawing