Mr Uniatz floundered with embarrassment.
“Well, I chase him, boss, but he dives into somebody’s basement on West End Avenoo, an’ I’m kinda worried about what goes wit’ youse, so I come back to find out.”
The Saint handed him Karl’s coat.
“He was just streamlining his wardrobe. You can have it — it’s about your size and certainly your style.”
He turned to Nelson. “This is Hoppy Uniatz. Hoppy — meet the Champ, Steve Nelson.”
Hoppy thrust out a hamlike paw as he grabbed the coat with the other.
“Likewise, I’m sure,” he beamed.
“This is your sparring partner?” Nelson asked, looking Hoppy up and down with respect.
“Not Hoppy,” said the Saint regretfully. “He never learned the Queensberry rules in his life. When Hoppy fights, he uses everything he has — including his head, elbows, knees, and feet. That is, when he can’t use brass knuckles, a beer bottle, or a blackjack.”
“Well, yeah,” Hoppy admitted, “a sap makes t’ings easier, but ya can’t handle it wit’ dem gloves on.”