"Jerry! I can't believe you."
"It's quite true. Sit down, my boy. Have you break-fasted yet?"
"Hours ago at the Manor."
"Just reproach! But the early worm gets caught by the bird, you know. I never get up—"
"Tell me," I broke in impatiently, "where you heard this extravagant tomfoolery?"
"From the extravagant tomfool himself. Jerry told me yesterday. I'm afraid there's no doubt about the matter. The articles of agreement are signed, the money, five thousand a side, is in the hands of the stakeholder—one Mike Finnegan, a friend of Flynn's, who keeps a saloon upon the Bowery."
"Preposterous! It hasn't come out, the newspapers—"
"They're full enough of it as it is. Jerry's opponent is a very prominent pug—an aspirant for the heavyweight title, no less a one than Jack Clancy, otherwise known as 'The Terrible Sailor, Champion of the Navy.'"
"But your father—the public—! It will ruin Jerry—ruin him—"
"Wait a bit. Fortunately Jerry's anonymity has been carefully kept. At Flynn's gymnasium he's called Jim Robinson, and it's as Jim Robinson, Flynn's wonderful unknown, that he will make his public appearance."