MRS. PARTINGTON was much surprised to find Ike, one rainy afternoon, in
the spare room, with the rag-bag hung to the bed-post, which he was
belaboring very lustily with his fists as huge as two one cent apples.
"What gymnastiness are you doing here?" said she, as she opened the
door.
He did not stop, and merely replying, "Training," continued to pitch in.
She stood looking at him as he danced around the bag, busily punching
its rotund sides.
"That's the Morrissey touch," said he, giving one side a dig; "and
that," hitting the other side, "is the Benicia Boy."
"Stop!" she said, and he immediately stopped after he had given the last
blow for Morrissey. "I am afraid the training you are having isn't
good," said she, "and I think you had better train in some other
company. I thought your going into compound fractures in school would be
dilatorious to you. I don't know who Mr. Morrissey is, and I don't want
to, but I hear that he has been whipping the Pernicious Boy, a poor lad
with a sore leg, and I think he should be ashamed of himself." Ike had
read the "_Herald_," with all about "the great prize fight" in it, and
had become entirely carried away with it.