The Coming of Bill. P. G. Wodehouse

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 door-bell 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 rough-neck, 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 middle-weights 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 to-day? Then perhaps you can tell me if an absurd young man in eye-glasses has called here yet? He is wearing a grey——"

      "Do you mean Bailey, ma'am. Bailey Bannister?"

      "You know my nephew, Mr. Dingle?"

      "Sure. I box with him every morning."

      "I never expected to hear that my nephew Bailey did anything so sensible as to take regular exercise. He does not look as if he did."

      "He certainly is a kind o' half-portion, ma'am. But say, if he's your nephew, Miss Ruth's your niece."

      "Perfectly correct."

      "Then you know all about this business?"

      "Which business, Mr. Dingle?"

      "Why, Kirk and Miss Ruth."

      Mrs. Porter raised her eyebrows.

      "Really, Mr. Dingle! Has Mr. Winfield made you his confidant?"

      "How's that?"

      "Has Mr. Winfield told you about my niece and himself?"

      "Hell, no! You don't find a real person like Kirk shooting his head about that kind of thing. I had it from Bailey."

      "From Bailey?"

      "Surest thing you know. He blew in here and shouted it all out at the top of his voice."

      "Indeed! I was wondering if he had arrived yet. He left my apartment saying he was going to thrash Mr. Winfield. I came here to save him from getting hurt. Was there any trouble?"

      "Not so's you could notice it. I guess when he'd taken a slant at Kirk he thought he wouldn't bother to swat him. Say, ma'am—"

      "Well?"

      "Whose corner are you in for this scrap?"

      "I don't understand you."

      "Well, are you rooting for Kirk, or are you holding the towel for old man Bannister?"

      "You mean, do I wish Mr. Winfield to marry my niece?"

      "You're hep."

      "Most certainly I do. It was I who brought them together."

      "Bully for you! Well, say, I just been shooting the dope into Kirk upstairs. I been—you didn't happen to read the report of a scrap I once had with a gazook called Kid Mitchell, did you, ma'am?"

      "I seldom, I may say never, read the sporting section of the daily papers."

      Steve looked at her in honest wonder.

      "For the love of Pete! What else do you find to read in 'em?" he said. "Well, I was telling Kirk about it. The Kid came at me to soak me, but I soaked him first and put him out. It's the only thing to do, ma'am, when you're up against it. Get in the first wallop before the other guy can get himself set for his punch. 'Kirk,' I says, 'don't you wait for old man Bannister to tell you you can't marry Miss Ruth. Marry her before he can say it.' I wish you'd tell him the same thing, ma'am. You know the old man as well as I do—better, I guess—and you know that Kirk ain't got a chance in a million with him if