n brought me a set-up. I let my eyes go over
her, real careful, for maybe the thousandth time. No doubt of it--the
lassie had a classy chassis. If she just wouldn't yak so damn much.

[Illustration: _It looked as though Hoiman's Bum would be remembered
on Mars._]

"Did you see the matches last night?" She didn't wait for my answer,
just went on with the yat-a-ta. "I spent the whole evening just glued
to my television set. I was simply enthralled. When the Horrible
Hungarian got the Flying Hackensack on--"

"Standing Hackenschmidt, Sherry!"

"--poor little Billie McElroy I wanted to--to scratch his eyes out."

I pointed out that McElroy weighed in at two forty-one and had gone on
to win the match. Sherry never heard me.

"And the way the Weeping Greek kept hitting the other fellow--the
announcer said he was throwing Judo cutlets."

"_Cuts_, not cutlets."

"But aren't Judo cutlets illegitimate?" The barest hint of a puzzled
frown tugged at her flawless brows as she poured ice water into my
glass.

"The word," I repeated, "is _cuts_. And the blow is not illegal." I
gave my eyes another treat. What a chassis. And _what_ a mind.
"Anything these days, so long as you don't kill your opponent, is
legal in wrestling."

Suddenly we had company: a little man who made scarcely a sound as he
slid into my booth and sat facing me. "Rassling, yet," he said, in
bitter tones. "What a woid. Dun't be saying it." He helped himself to
a cigarette from my pack lying on the table, and put the pack in his
pocket. He lit the cigarette, using my lighter, which he held a moment
longer than necessary before replacing it--regretfully--on the table.

He inhaled deeply. "Rassling!" he repeated. "Leave us not discuss it."

* * * * *

He was thin, haggard, unkempt, and his brown suit--in which the chalk
stripes were beginning to blend with the background--was threadbare.
He needed a shave, and his fingernails were dirty. He was vaguely
familiar. The beady little eyes flicked up at me, and all uncertainty
dissolved.

"Oh, no!" I said. "Not you. Not--"

He exhaled a great cloud of smoke. "Hoiman Katz," he said, in dejected
tones. "It is me, again. The same as like always, only not so better."
He sighed.

Sherry's tongue had been shifting from one foot to the other, waiting
for an opening. "Are you a wrestler, Mr. Katz?" she asked brightly.

Hoiman half rose from his seat, and the cigarette dropped from