was reclining at full length on the canvas at the National Sporting Club of jolly old London, as stiff as a head waiter's shirt. I put him there, with some kind assistance from Fighting Paddy Leary.
When he crossed my path, Monsieur Leary was just a nice young fellow who earned an honest living breaking noses. He was just one of a thousand others, with nothing about him that particularly stood out except maybe his ears, which bore a really clever resemblance to overripe cauliflowers. Well, I snatched him out of the mob and made him a king—king of the middleweight boxers!
I hope you won't think I'm in the habit of cuddling up to prize fighters, because nothing could be further from the truth, unless possibly one of Sinbad's travelogues. I'm no fight fan; honestly, I wouldn't trip across the street to see Dempsey versus two gorillas even if they gave the gorillas axes to even things up. In fact I still shudder when I think of Fighting Paddy Leary and Grenadier Tompkins, two young men who might have been useful bookkeepers or something, beating each other into a highly unpalatable Jelly in that London arena while a blood-thirsty crowd cheered them on. Heavens, what animals men are! Still, they're pretty good company.
There's an old saying that familiarity breeds contempt, and I guess the reason the male sex is just a
