"
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.
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