“The Telfair family—­” I began, haughtily.

“I mean professional beauty,” said my hearer.

“She is greatly and widely admired,” I answered, cautiously.

“Any sisters?”

“One.”

“You know any more girls?”

“Why, several,” I answered.  “And a few others.”

“Say,” said Mack, “tell me one thing—­can you hand out the dope to other girls?  Can you chin ’em and make matinee eyes at ’em and squeeze ’em?  You know what I mean.  You’re just shy when it comes to this particular dame—­the professional beauty—­ain’t that right?”

“In a way you have outlined the situation with approximate truth,” I admitted.

“I thought so,” said Mack, grimly.  “Now, that reminds me of my own case.  I’ll tell you about it.”

I was indignant, but concealed it.  What was this loafer’s case or anybody’s case compared with mine?  Besides, I had given him a dollar and ten cents.

“Feel my muscle,” said my companion, suddenly, flexing his biceps.  I did so mechanically.  The fellows in gyms are always asking you to do that.  His arm was as hard as cast-iron.

“Four years ago,” said Mack, “I could lick any man in New York outside of the professional ring.  Your case and mine is just the same.  I come from the West Side—­between Thirtieth and Fourteenth—­I won’t give the number on the door.  I was a scrapper when I was ten, and when I was twenty no amateur in the city could stand up four rounds with me.  ’S a fact.  You know Bill McCarty?  No?  He managed the smokers for some of them swell clubs.  Well, I knocked out everything Bill brought up before me.  I was a middle-weight, but could train down to a welter when necessary.  I boxed all over the West Side at bouts and benefits and private entertainments, and was never put out once.

“But, say, the first time I put my foot in the ring with a professional I was no more than a canned lobster.  I dunno how it was—­I seemed to lose heart.  I guess I got too much imagination.  There was a formality and publicness about it that kind of weakened my nerve.  I never won a fight in the ring.  Light-weights and all kinds of scrubs used to sign up with my manager and then walk up and tap me on the wrist and see me fall.  The minute I seen the crowd and a lot of gents in evening clothes down in front, and seen a professional come inside the ropes, I got as weak as ginger-ale.

“Of course, it wasn’t long till I couldn’t get no backers, and I didn’t have any more chances to fight a professional—­or many amateurs, either.  But lemme tell you—­I was as good as most men inside the ring or out.  It was just that dumb, dead feeling I had when I was up against a regular that always done me up.

“Well, sir, after I had got out of the business, I got a mighty grouch on.  I used to go round town licking private citizens and all kinds of unprofessionals just to please myself.  I’d lick cops in dark streets and car-conductors and cab-drivers and draymen whenever I could start a row with ’em.  It didn’t make any difference how big they were, or how much science they had, I got away with ’em.  If I’d only just have had the confidence in the ring that I had beating up the best men outside of it, I’d be wearing black pearls and heliotrope silk socks to-day.