At this very minute, while we sat there in that room at a quarter past eight, all over the wide world modest-seeming men were telling how they had licked the other man with one punch, or two or three at the most.  It was being told in Kulanche County, Washington, and in Patagonia and Philadelphia and Africa and China, and them places; in clubs and lumber camps and Pullman cars and ships and saloons—­in states that remained free of the hydrant-headed monster, Prohibition—­in tents and palaces; in burning deserts and icy wastes.  At that very second, in an ice hut up by the North Pole, a modest Eskimo was telling and showing his admiring wife and relatives just how he had put out another Eskimo that had come round and tried to start something.  Which was another mystery, the man winning the fight being always put upon and invariably in the right.  In every one of these world-wide encounters justice always prevailed and only the winner talked about it afterward.

“And lots of times,” continued the lady, “this talkative winner has been set upon by as many as three others.  But he licks ’em all.  Sometimes he admits he had a little luck with the third man; but he gets two of the cowards easy.  Why, down in Red Gap only the other night I saw a kind of a slight young man in a full-dress suit lick three big huskies that set on him.  He put two out with a punch apiece and got the third after about one round of sparring.  There he stood winner over all three, and hardly his hair mussed; and you wouldn’t of thought in the beginning that he could lick one of the bunch.  It was a good picture, all right, with this fight coming in the first reel to start things off lively.  But what I want to know is why, out of these million fights that come off, you never hear a word out of a loser!  I’ll bet all my Liberty Bonds right now that you never yet heard a man tell about how he was licked in a fair fight.”

I had to decline the wager.  The most I could submit was that I had heard some plausible excuses.  The lady waved her entire knitting in deprecation.

“Oh, excuses!  You hear ’em a-plenty when the loser can’t deny he was licked.  Most losers will odd things along till they sound even.  I heard a lovely excuse down in Red Gap.  Hyman Leftowitz, who does business there as Abercrombie, the Quality Tailor, made a suit for Eddie Pierce that drives the depot hack, and Eddie was slow pay.  So Hyman lost his native tact one night and dunned Eddie when he was walking down Fourth Street with his girl.  Eddie left his girl in at the Owl Drug Store and went back and used Hyman hard; and all Hyman did was to yell ‘Help!’ and ‘Murder!’ I was in his shop for a fitting next day and Hyman’s face arrested the attention much more than usual.  It showed that Eddie had done something with him.  So I says:  ’Why didn’t you fight back?  What was your fists for?’ And Hyman says:  ’I pledge you my word I didn’t know it was a fight.’  Oh, excuses—­sure!  But that ain’t what I’m getting at.  You’ve heard the winners talk, like we all have, how they did it with the good old right hook to the jaw, or how they landed one straight left and all was over; but did you ever hear any talk from a loser without excuses, one who come out plain and said he was licked by a better man?”