the prospects of Jack Bruce's father in
the forthcoming election, the polling for which had just begun.

"I'm busy now," said Bruce. "I'm not sure that I shall be able to do
much sparring with you for a bit."

"My dear chap, don't let me--"

"Oh, it's all right, really. Taking you to the 'Blue Boar' doesn't land
me out of my way at all. Most of the work lies round in this direction.
I call at cottages, and lug oldest inhabitants to the poll. It's rare
sport."

"Does your pater know?"

"Oh, yes. He rots me about it like anything, but, all the same, I
believe he's really rather bucked because I've roped in quite a dozen
voters who wouldn't have stirred a yard if I hadn't turned up. That's
where we're scoring. Pedder hasn't got a car yet, and these old rotters
round here aren't going to move out of their chairs to go for a ride in
an ordinary cart. But they chuck away their crutches and hop into a
motor like one o'clock."

"It must be rather a rag," said Sheen.

The car drew up at the door of the "Blue Boar". Sheen got out and ran
upstairs to the gymnasium. Joe Bevan was sparring a round with Francis.
He watched them while he changed, but without the enthusiasm of which
he had been conscious on previous occasions. The solid cleverness of
Joe Bevan, and the quickness and cunning of the bantam-weight, were as
much in evidence as before, but somehow the glamour and romance which
had surrounded them were gone. He no longer watched eagerly to pick up
the slightest hint from these experts. He felt no more interest than he
would have felt in watching a game of lawn tennis. He _had_ been
keen. Since his disappointment with regard to the House Boxing he had
become indifferent.

Joe Bevan noticed this before he had been boxing with him a minute.

"Hullo, sir," he said, "what's this? Tired today? Not feeling well? You
aren't boxing like yourself, not at all you aren't. There's no weight
behind 'em. You're tapping. What's the matter with your feet, too? You
aren't getting about as quickly as I should like to see. What have you
been doing to yourself?"

"Nothing that I know of," said Sheen. "I'm sorry I'm so rotten. Let's
have another try."

The second try proved as unsatisfactory as the first. He was listless,
and his leads and counters lacked conviction.

Joe Bevan, who identified himself with his pupils with that
thoroughness which is the hall-mark of the first-class boxing
instructor, looked so pained at his sudden