"when I saw you dragging that wire yesterday I took you
to be a pretty husky citizen yourself."

He grinned and took a big mouthful from one of his sandwiches. I could
see that my shot had gone home.

"So when I got back last night," I said, "I looked up the arm
measurements of Sullivan and Fitzsimmons in a book I have and got to
wondering how they compared with mine and yours. They were considerably
larger than mine--"

Bill thought this a fine joke and laughed out in great good humour.

"But I imagine you'd not be far behind either of them."

He looked at me a little suspiciously, as if doubtful what I was driving
at or whether or not I was joking him. But I was as serious as the face
of nature; and proceeded at once to get out my tape measure.

"I get very much interested in such things," I said, "and I had enough
curiosity to want to see how big your arm really was."

He smiled broadly.

"You're a queer one," said he.

But he took another bite of sandwich, and clenching his great fist drew
up his forearm until the biceps muscles looked like a roll of Vienna
bread--except that they had the velvety gleam of life. So I measured
first one arm, then the other.

"By George!" said I, "you're ahead of Fitzsimmons, but not quite up to
Sullivan."

"Fitz wasn't a heavy man," said Bill, "but a dead game fighter."

I saw then that I had him! So I sat down on the grass near by and we had
great talk about the comparative merits of Fitzsimmons and Sullivan and
Corbett and Jack Johnson, a department of knowledge in which he
out-distanced me. He even told me of an exploit or two of his own,
which showed that he was able to take care of himself.

While we talked he ate his luncheon, and a downright gargantuan luncheon
it was, backed by an appetite which if it were offered to the highest
bidder on the New York Stock Exchange would, I am convinced, bring at
least ten thousand dollars in cash. It even made me envious.

There were three huge corned-beef sandwiches, three hard-boiled eggs, a
pickle six inches long and fat to boot, four doughnuts so big that they
resembled pitching quoits, a bottle of coffee and milk, a quarter of a
pie, and, to cap the climax, an immense raw onion. It was worth a long
journey to see Bill eat that onion. He took out his clasp knife, and
after stripping off the papery outer shell, cut the onion into thick
dewy slices. Then he opened one of the sandwiches and placed several of
them on the be