“Oh, j’y!” cried the Old Un, hugging himself in bony arms.  “Oh, j’yful words.  Ah, but you peels like a good un, sir,” he croaked, viewing white flesh and bulging muscle with knowing old eyes, “good an’ long in the arm an’ wide slope o’ shoulder.  You might ha’ done well in the ring if you’d been blessed wi’ poverty an’ I’d ’ad the ’andling of ye—­a world’s unbeat champion, like Joe.  A good fighter were I an’ a wonnerful trainer!  Ho, yus, I might ha’ made a top-notcher of ye if you ’adn’t been cursed wi’ money.”

“I suppose,” said Ravenslee thoughtfully, “I suppose Joe was one of the best all-round fighting men that ever climbed into a ring?”

“Ah—­that ’e were!  Joe were better ’n the best—­only don’t let ’im ’ear me say so, ’e ’d be that puffed up—­Lord!  But nobody could beat Joe—­black, yaller or white; they all tried danged ’ard, but Joe were a world-beater—­y’ see, I trained Joe!  An’ to-day ’e ’s as good as ever ’e was.  Y’ see, Joe’s allus lived clean, sir, consequent Joe’s sound, wind an’ limb.  Joe could go back an’ beat all these fancy bruisers and stringy young champs to-day—­if ’e only would—­but don’t let ’im ’ear me say so.”

“You’re fond of Joe, Old Un?”

“An’ why for not, sir—­s’ long as ’e don’t know it?  Didn’t ’e look arter poor old me when ’e ‘ad money, an’ when ’e lost everything, didn’t ’e look arter me still?  An’ now ’e ‘s your shuvver, don’ ’e keep a roof over me poor old ’ead like a son—­don’t ‘e give me the run o’ jour garridge an’ let me watch ‘im spar wi’ you an’ your gentlemen friends?  Ain’t ‘e the best an’ truest-’earted man as ever drawed breath?  Ah, a king o’ men is Joe, in the ring an’ out, sir—­only never let ’im ’ear me say so—­’e ‘d be that proud, Lord! there’d be no livin’ wi’ ’im—­sh, ’ere ’e be, sir.”

Joe had laid by his chauffeur’s garb and looked even bigger and grimmer in flannels and sweater.

“Ho you, Joe,” cried the old man, scowling, “did ye bring me that ’bacca?”

“S’posin’ I didn’t?” demanded Joe.

“Then dang ye—­twice!”

“An’ s’posin’ I did?”

“Then—­give it ’ere!”

“An’ that’s his gratitood, sir!” growled Joe, shaking his head and giving the packet into the old man’s clutching fingers.  “A unnat’ral old bag-o’-bones, that’s what ’e is, sir!”

“Bones!” croaked the Old Un viciously.  “Bag-o’-bones am I?  Yah—­look at ye’self—­pork, that’s what you are, all run to pork an’ blubber an’ fat, Joe, me pore lad—­”

“Fat!” growled Joe.  “Y’ know I ain’t fat; y’ know I’m as good a man as ever I was—­look at that, you old sarpent!” And he smote himself with mighty fist—­a blow to fell an ox.  “Fat, am I?”

“As—­lard!” nodded the old man, filling half an inch of blackened clay pipe with trembling fingers, “as a ’og—­”

“Now my crumbs—­” began Joe fiercely.

“You’re flabby an’ soft, me pore lad,” grinned the old man.  “Flabby as a babby an’ soft as a woman an’ fat as a—­”