eton were
little boys themselves. It was just taken for granted that boys would
be boys, and it was hoped that they would grow up to be good men, if
after school hours they were allowed to run loose in the streets. But
Grenfell had a different idea.

He turned the dining-room on Saturday evenings into a gymnasium.

He pushed aside the table and chucked the chairs out of the window.

"Now any of you fellows who want to can get busy on the parallel
bars," he told them, "or if you like you can go out into the back yard
and pitch quoits. I'll take on anybody who wants to box with me."

The boys thought it was heaps of fun. They could hardly wait for
Saturday night to come, because it meant the rare sport of banging
another boy in the nose, which was much more satisfactory than
throwing stones at a policeman.

After he was big enough, he used to go to lodging-houses where men
slept who were down and out. He knew that drink had brought them low,
and he wanted to show them better things to do.

The saloon-keepers were against him from the start. He was depriving
them of some of their best customers.

"You're spoiling our business," they grumbled.

At last they made up their minds they would "get" him.

They collected a "gang" and one night they locked the door, backed up
against it, and shouted:

"Come on, young feller! We're goin' to fix you!"

They rolled up their sleeves, clenched their fists, and sailed into
him full-tilt like a big, angry crowd of human bees.

Grenfell was ready for them. It was like a fight in the movies.

He had kept himself in fine condition, for he was in training to play
football and he was known to be a first-rate boxer.

They flew at him, roaring to encourage one another. There were six or
eight of them, but they were afraid of his fists.

"Come on, boys!"

"Hit 'im a good 'un, Bill! 'E's spoilin' our business, that's what
'e's doin'."

"Push in his face. 'Ammer 'im good 'n' proper!"

"We'll show 'im what's what!"

"'E's a noosance. Le's get rid of 'im. Lemme get at 'im once. I'll
show 'im!"

So they came on, clumsy with drink, but their maudlin outcries didn't
scare Grenfell a bit.

He was waiting for them,--cool, quiet, determined.

Their diet was mostly bad ale and beer, or whiskey: Grenfell was all
muscle, from constant exercise and wholesome diet--the roast beef of
old England, whole wheat bread, plenty of rich milk.

They were no match for him.

On they came, o