before we got under way.

Chester and me have had a round or so, and he'd just wore out one of
his friends and was tryin' to tease somebody else to put 'em on, when I
spots a rubber neck in the back of the hall.

"O-o-h, see who's here, Chetty!" says I, whisperin' over his shoulder.

It was our poet friend, that has had to give up Angelica to her maw.
He's been strayin' around loose, and has wandered in through the gym.
doors by luck. Now, Chester may not have any mighty intellect, but
there's times when he can think as quick as the next one. He takes one
glance at Curlylocks, and stiffens like a bird dog pointin' a partridge.

"Say," says he all excited, "do you suppose--could we get him to put
them on?"

"Not if you showed you was so anxious as all that," says I.

"Then you ask him, Shorty," he whispers. "I'll give a hundred for just
one round--two hundred."

"S-s-sh!" says I. "Take it easy."

Ever see an old lady tryin' to shoo a rooster into a fence corner,
while the old man waited around the end of the woodshed with the axe?
You know how gentle and easy the trick has to be worked? Well, that
was me explainin' to Curlylocks how we was havin' a little exercise
with the kid pillows,--oh, just a little harmless tappin' back and
forth, so's we could sleep well afterwards,--and didn't he feel like
tryin' it for a minute with Chester? Smooth! Some of that talk of
mine would have greased an axle.

Sylvie, old boy, he blinks at me through his glasses, like a poll
parrot sizin' up a firecracker that little Jimmy wants to hand him. He
don't say anything, but he seems some interested. He reaches out for
one of the mitts and pokes a finger into the paddin', lookin' it over
as if it was some kind of a curiosity.

"Reg'lar swan's down cushions," says I.

"Like to have you try a round or so, Vickers," puts in Chester, as
careless as he could. "Professor McCabe will show you how to put them
on."

"Ah, really?" says Curlylocks. Then he has to step up and inspect
Chester's frame up.

"That's the finish!" thinks I; for Chetty's a well built boy, good and
bunchy around the shoulders, and when he peels down to a sleeveless
jersey he looks 'most as wicked as Sharkey. But, just as we're
expectin' Curlylocks to show how wise he was, he throws out a bluff
that leaves us gaspin' for breath.

"Do you know," says he, "if I was in the mood for that sort of thing,
I'd be charmed; but--er----"

"Oh, fudge!" says C