“Oh, certainly,” he replied, chuckling to himself.

The man who gave me my first lesson, a man of my own build and height, appeared, also laughing as he noticed who the applicant for another lesson was.  My barrack-room instructor was on hand also, for I had confidentially communicated to him that evening my intention to try again.

There is something fiendish in the Celtic nature, some beast in the blood, which, when aroused, is exceedingly helpful in matters of this kind.  In less than sixty seconds, I had demonstrated to the onlookers, and particularly to my opponent, that I had been to school since last meeting him.  I had not been particular about fancy touches, or the pointless, gingerbread style of showing off before a crowd.  There was a positive viciousness in my attack, which was perfectly legitimate in such circumstances; but it was the first time I had ever felt the beast in my blood, and I turned him loose; and if I had been made Prime Minister of England by a miracle, I could not have felt one-hundredth part of the pride that I did, when, inside of the first thirty seconds, I had stretched my instructor on his back at my feet, and in the absolute joyfulness and ecstasy of my soul, I yelled at the top of my voice, “Hurry up, ye blind-therin’ spalpeen, till I knock yez down again!”

The man got up, and was somewhat more cautious, but utterly unprepared to be completely mastered at his own game in five minutes; and, when the chief instructor interfered and ordered his assistant out of the ring, I begged for more; and so a fresh man was put in, and another, and another, until six men had failed to tire me, or to disturb me in the least.  After the first two I laughed, laughed loudly, in the midst of my aggressive work, and enjoyed it every moment of the time, and, when occasionally I was the recipient of a stinging blow, it merely added to my zest.

Next morning I found myself a hero.  In the course of the night, I had become famous in a small circle as a bruiser.  In accomplishing this, I had thrown aside for the time being my religious scruples on the question of boxing, not only on boxing, but fighting, and I had set aside a good deal of my prejudice in my struggle for an education, and my success in the thing I started out to do almost unbalanced me.

I had for the first few days after this encounter a terrific struggle, a struggle of the human soul, between my character and my reputation.  Only about one hundred and fifty men saw the encounter, but, before parade time next morning, fifteen hundred men were acquainted with it.  It had reached the officers’ mess, and, as I went back and forth, I was pointed out as the new discovery.  I finally reached a state of mind that filled me with disgust, and I took an afternoon stroll down the road to Walmer Castle; and just opposite the window of the room in which the Duke of Wellington died—­on the sands of Deal beach I knelt on my knees and promised God that I “wudn’t put th’ dhirty gloves on again,” and I kept the promise—­while in the training depot.