"You journalist chaps just spoil us," said Puncher Pete, when I called
upon him yesterday at his training camp. "You draw us into conversation,
stick down our remarks in your note-books, and then make us out to be
the biggest boasters on the face of the earth. It's not right.
"For instance, you've got it on the tip of your tongue to ask me if I
think I'll lick Jimmy Battle next Thursday. Well, of course I'll lick
him. Jimmy's a good boy, but he can't stay, and then _he_ hasn't gone
twenty rounds with three blacks, as I have. But what's my opinion matter
to you? Why make me shout it out like a cock on a steeple?
"Yes, I shall beat Jimmy. Six rounds will cure him. All right. Very well
then. Leave it at that.
"One of your fellows called upon me two days ago. 'Pete,' he said, 'they
say you're ill.' 'You tell 'em to mind their own ills,' I gave him back.
Ill, indeed! If I were ill could I walk my forty miles a day and think
nothing of it? Could I lift Harry Blokes there with one hand and hold
him above my head? D'you suppose a sick man could do _this_?"
The Puncher seized a skipping-rope and did marvellous things with it.
Then he smashed lustily at a punch-ball, left, right, left, right, duck,
bing! "Here, Harry!" he cried. His sparring partner approached, bruised
but beaming. The Puncher knocked him down.
"I seem ill, don't I?" said Pete, turning to me. "But what's it got to
do with all you chaps, anyway? Wait till Thursday. Then you'll find out
whether I'm ill or not. And even if I was ill Jimmy couldn't do it.
Jimmy's got as good a punch as the next man, I'll say that for him. If
he gets it in it would fell an ox. But can he get it in? Not next
Thursday.
"Now, see here, you're not going to draw any words from me about the
coming fight. You may draw others. I refuse. Let's get right off this
fight and on to other things.
"After all, fighters are modest chaps. When I knocked Torpedo Troop out
in three rounds last April for a purse of £5,000 and the Championship of
Nova Scotia I didn't go bragging. I might have said that this was the
first time that the Torpedo had ever had his eyes closed. Well, I
didn't. What's more, I never shall. Tell your reader that!
"Take my victory over Quartermain, again. Or over Dinghy Abbs, who was
down and out in the second round in spite of all the fuss that was made
about him beforehand. I was a sick man at both these fights. Not a soul
knew it, mind you. My wife--for I'm as fond of home life as any ordinary
man, and we have a little baby--my wife used to worry terribly. She'd
expect me to come home on a stretcher. But I never happened to choose
that conveyance, and she don't fret any more.
"Will it be a stretcher on Thursday? I can see you want to put that
question, but I'll ask you to excuse me. Next Thursday, as I've already
hinted, will tell its own story, and when I say that the tale will have
a happy ending for one of us who isn't too far from your ear to boast
about it if he was inclined that way, perhaps you'll guess without my
telling you what I mean.
"Not at all, Sir. Don't mention it. I'm always glad to have a friendly
chat with anyone, and I hope you'll forgive me for refusing to talk
shop."
* * * * *
Illustration: A RESORT TO THE OBVIOUS.
MR. PUNCH. "PERMIT ME, GENTLEMEN--I DON'T THINK YOU KNOW ONE ANOTHER:
SIR EDWARD CARSON--MR. REDMOND. IT'S MORE THAN TIME YOU MET."
* * * * *