“Yer don’t tell him.  Dat’s all.  I had ter pay t’ree hunderd dollars ter learn dis, an’ sign a ’greement dat I wouldn’t give it erway.  Jem Mace tort me dis trick w’en I sparred wid him in Liverpool.  He says ter me, says he:  ’Buster, ye’re a boid, dat’s wot ye are.  If you knowed der trick of breakin’ a bloke’s wrist dere ain’t no duffer in der woild dat can do yer.  I’ll show yer der crack fer sixty pound.’  He wouldn’t come down a little bit, an’ I paid him wot he asked.  Since dat time I’ve knocked roun’ all over der woild, an’ it’s saved me life fife times.  Dat was a cheap trick wot I got from old Jem, dat were.  A dago pulled a knife on me oncet fer ter cut me wide open, but I broke der dago’s wrist quicker dan yer can spit.”

“Well, here is your money, and now I want to know that trick.”

“Yer ’grees not ter tell it ter anybody?”

“Yes, I agree.”

“Dat settles it.”

Kelley took the money and carefully stowed it away in his clothes.

“Strip up an’ git inter yer trainin’ rig,” he directed.

Bruce went into the back room, and Buster poked himself in the ribs with his thumb, grinning and winking at his own reflection in the cracked mirror.

“Oh, say! but I’m a peach!” he told himself in a confidential whisper.  “If der college perfessers don’t git arter me ergin I’ll make me forchune right yere.”

Kelley had originally hung out a sign and advertised to instruct young gentlemen in boxing, but the faculty had made it rather warm for him, and it was generally supposed that he had been forced to leave New Haven.  He had not left, but he had changed his quarters to the rooms he now occupied, one flight up at the back of a saloon.

In a short time Bruce called that he was ready, and the professor leisurely strolled into the back room, where there was a punching bag, a striking machine, all kinds of boxing gloves, and other paraphernalia such as a man in Kelley’s business might need.

At one side of the room were several small closets, in which Kelley’s pupils kept their training suits while they were not wearing them.  The door of one closet was open, and Browning’s street clothes were hanging on some hooks inside.

Browning had got into trunks, stockings, and light, soft-bottomed shoes.  He was stripped to the waist.

Buster walked around the lad, inspecting him with a critical eye, punching here and there with his fingers, feeling of certain muscles and some points where there seemed to be a superabundance of flesh.

“Well, say!” cried the professor.  “I’d like ter know wot yer kickin’ erbout!  I never seen a feller work off fat no faster dan wot youse has, an’ dat’s on der dead.  Why, w’en yer comes yere yer didn’t have a muscle dat weren’t buried in fat, an’ now dey’re comin’ out hard all over yer.  You’d kick ef yer wuz playin’ football!”

“That’s all right,” said Bruce, rather impatiently.  “I know what I want, and I am paying you to give it to me.  Go ahead.”