Their style was similar, for the father had taught the son all he knew, except that the father's was the fighting and the son's the sparring style.

To-night the roles appeared to be reversed, the son pressing hard at the in-fighting, the father trusting to his foot work and countering with the light touch of a man making points.
"You ARE boring in, aren't you ?" said the father, stopping a fierce rally.
"You are not playing up, dad," said his son.

"I don't feel like soft work to-night.

Come to me!" "As you say," replied the father, and for the next five minutes Barry had no reason to complain of soft work, for his father went after him with all the fight that was in him, so that in spite of a vigorous defence the son was forced to take refuge in a runaway game.
"Now you're going!" shouted the son, making a fierce counter with his right to a hard driven left, which he side-stepped.

It was a fatal exposure.