Aunt Caroline eyed Kid Whaley from head to foot.
"You have never been a sculptor, of course," she said in a bitter tone. "I might have known better. Of course, I placed confidence in my nephew. I shall take care never to do so again. You are nothing but a low prize-fighter, it appears."
The Kid was beginning to glower. There is a dignity that attaches to every profession, and those who rise high should always endeavor to maintain it.
"I'm a pr'fessional athalete," said the Kid, wrapping his robe about him. "There ain't nothin' low about me. I'm goin' t' fight th' champeen."
Aunt Caroline studied him with narrowing eyes.
"Bill, y' oughta been here," continued the Kid, turning to his patron. "Y' oughta seen th' mill. Take it from me, this Bearcat is good. He gimme a run. I got nothin' against him f'r it. Knocked him stiff in eight rounds, Bill. Say, if I'd had th' champ in here t'-night I'd 'a' done th' same thing. Bill, I'm gettin' better every time I put on th' gloves. Six months from now I'm gonna be champeen, Bill. Get me! Champeen!"
The Kid expanded his chest under his frowsy toga and glanced condescendingly at Aunt Caroline. It was time she acquired a proper perspective concerning his exact status, he thought.
"Out of my house!" she said sharply. "Out of my house—everybody!"
There was a sudden movement of the crowd, a slacking of tension. Men started crowding through the door into the hall. The Trenton Bearcat, groggy as to head and legs, went with them, supported on either side by his seconds. The stout man who had been general manager, announcer and referee, seized his coat and elbowed his way toward freedom as though seized with panic. A window had been opened and part of the crowd began flowing out through that.
Kid Whaley turned nonchalantly, sought a chair and began unlacing his fighting-shoes.