e had my guesses as to what the
public wants, and I know I'm a perfectly punk prophet.

Besides, it was about time for J. Bayard Steele to show up with this
gent from Washington, Cuyler Morrison De Kay, and--well, I'd just as
soon not be bothered to explain Hunk Burley to a pair like that. You
know the kind of bygone friends that do need explainin'--well, Hunk
needed it bad; for as far as looks went he was about the crudest party
that ever sported a diamond elephant stickpin or chewed twenty-five-cent
cigars for a steady diet.

Built wide and substantial, Hunk was, with the longest arms you ever saw
outside an iron cage, and a set of rugged features that had the Old Man
of the Mountain lookin' like a ribbon clerk. Reg'lar cave dweller's
face, it was; and with his bristly hair growin' down to a point just
above his eyes, and the ear tufts, and the mossy-backed paws--well, if
there ever was a throw-back to the Stone Age he was it.

As a rubber in my old trainin' camp outfit, though, Hunk had his good
points. I've gone on the table to him with a set of shoulder muscles as
stiff as a truck trace and inside of half an hour jumped up as limber as
a whale-bone whip. And I'd never sign up for more'n a ten-round go
without sendin' for Hunk first thing after the forfeits was up. Course,
when it come to society, there was others I liked better, and I expect
after I quit the ring I didn't take any particular pains to keep his
name in my address book.

But Hunk was one of the old crowd that didn't need much dodgin'. He went
his way like I went mine, and I hadn't seen him for years when he
tramps into the studio here the other noon, treadin' heavy on his heels
and wearin' this suit of peace-disturbin' plaids. He hadn't climbed the
stairs just for any Auld Lang Syne nonsense, either. He was there on
business.

That is, it seemed like business to him; for, in his special way, Hunk
had been comin' along. He hadn't stuck to bein' a rubber. He'd done a
strong-man turn with a medicine top for awhile, then he'd worked into
the concession game on the county fair circuit, managed a Ferris wheel
and carrousel outfit, and even swung an Uncle Tom troupe, with six real
bloodhounds, through the town halls of fourteen States.

"Pullin' down the kale by the double handsful, mind you," says Hunk.
"But no more! The movies has queered the Topsy business. Absolutely! I
seen it comin' just in time, and I've been layin' low until I could find
somet