“Forget it! He’d give you the hook before you’d got through asking if you might call him daddy.”
“You’re comforting, Steve. They call you Little Sunbeam at home, don’t they?”
“Hell!” said Steve warmly, “I’m not shooting this at you just to make you feel bad. I gotta reason. I want to make you see this ain’t going to be no society walkover, with the Four Hundred looking on from the pews and poppa signing cheques in the background. Say, did I ever tell you how I beat Kid Mitchell?”
“Does it apply to the case in hand?”
“Does it what to the which?”
“Had it any bearing on my painful position? I only ask, because that’s what is interesting me most just now, and, if you’re going to change the subject, there’s a chance that my attention may wander.”
“Sure it does. It’s a—what d’you call it when you pull something that’s got another meaning tucked up its sleeve?”
“A parable?”
“That’s right. A—what you said. Well, this Kid Mitchell was looked on as a coming champ in those days. He had cleaned up some good boys, while I had only gotten a rep about as big as a nickel with a hole in it. I guess I looked pie to him. He turkey-trotted up to me for the first round and stopped in front of me as if he was wondering what had blown in and whether the Gerry Society would stand for his hitting it. I could see him thinking ‘This is too easy’ as plain as if he’d said it. And then he took another peek at me, as much as to say, ‘Well, let’s get it over. Where shall I soak him first?’ And while he’s doing this I get in range and I put my left pretty smart into his lunch-wagon and I pick up my right off the carpet and hand it to him, and down he goes. And when he gets up again it’s pretty nearly tomorrow morning and I’ve drawn the winner’s end and gone home.”
“And the moral?”
“Why, don’t spar. Punch! Don’t wait for the wallop. Give it.”
“You mean?”
“Why, when old man Bannister says: ‘Nix! You shall never marry my child!’ come back at him by saying: ‘Thanks very much, but I’ve just done it!’ ”
“Good heavens, Steve!”
“You’ll never win out else. You don’t know old man Bannister. I do.”
“But—”
The doorbell rang.
“Who on earth’s that?” said Kirk. “It can’t be Bailey back again.”
“Good morning, Pennicut,” spoke the clear voice of Mrs. Lora Delane Porter. “I wish to see Mr. Winfield.”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s upstairs in ’is bath!”
“I will wait in the studio.”
“Good Lord!” cried Kirk, bounding from his seat on the rail. “For Heaven’s sake, Steve, go and talk to her while I dress. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Sure. What’s her name?”
“Mrs. Porter. You’ll like her. Tell her all about yourself—where you were born, how much you are round the chest, what’s your favourite breakfast food. That’s what she likes to chat about. And tell her I’ll be down in a second.”
Steve, reaching the studio, found Mrs. Porter examining the boxing-gloves which had been thrown on a chair.
“Eight-ounce, ma’am,” he said genially, by way of introduction. “Kirk’ll be lining up in a moment. He’s getting into his rags.”
Mrs. Porter looked at him with the gimlet stare which made her so intensely disliked by practically every man she knew.
“Are you a friend of Mr. Winfield?” she said.
“Sure. We just been spieling together up above. He sent me down to tell you he won’t be long.”
Mrs. Porter concluded her inspection.
“What is your name?”
“Dingle, ma’am.”
“You are extraordinarily well developed. You have unusually long arms for a man of your height.”
“Yep. I got a pretty good reach.”
“Are you an artist?”
“A which?”
“An artist. A painter.”
Steve smiled broadly.
“I’ve been called a good many things, but no one’s ever handed me that. No, ma’am, I’m a has-been.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Granted.”
“What did you say you were?” asked Mrs. Porter after a pause.
“A has-been. I used to be a middle, but mother kicked, and I quit. All through taking a blue eye home! Wouldn’t that jar you?”
“I have no doubt you intend to be explicit—”
“Not on your life!” protested Steve. “I may be a roughneck, but I’ve got me manners. I wouldn’t get explicit with a lady.”
Mrs. Porter sat down.
“We appear to be talking at cross-purposes,” she said. “I still do not gather what your profession is or was.”
“Why, ain’t I telling you? I used to be a middle—”
“What is a middle?”
“Why, it’s in between the light-heavies and the welters. I was a welter when I broke into the fighting game, but—”
“Now I understand. You are a pugilist?”
“Used to be. But mother kicked.”
“Kicked whom?”
“You don’t get me, ma’am. When I say she kicked, I mean my blue eye threw a scare into her, and she put a crimp in my career. Made me quit when I should have been champ in another couple of fights.”
“I am afraid I cannot follow these domestic troubles of yours. And why do you speak of your blue eye? Your eyes are brown.”
“This one wasn’t. It was the fattest blue eye you ever seen. I ran up against a short right hook. I put him out next round, ma’am, mind you, but that didn’t help me any with mother. Directly she seen me blue eye she said: ‘That’ll be all from you, Steve. You stop it this minute.’ So I quit. But gee! It’s tough on a fellow to have to sit out of the game and watch a bunch of cheeses like this new crop of middleweights swelling around and calling themselves fighters when they couldn’t lick a postage-stamp, not if it was properly trained. Hell! Beg pardon, ma’am.”
“I find you an interesting study, Mr. Dingle,” said Mrs. Porter thoughtfully. “I have never met a pugilist before. Do you box with Mr. Winfield?”
“Sure. Kirk and me go five rounds every morning.”
“You have been boxing with him today? Then perhaps you can tell me if an absurd young man in
