"I!" I gasped.
"Precisely. You are Jerry Benham, patron of the manly art—Mæcenas, friend and backer of Robinson aforesaid, whom you've invited to Horsham Manor to complete his training."
"Preposterous! These—these bruisers" (I let go now) "think I'm you?"
"No, dear Roger, not I, who am Robinson, but Jerry Benham, multi-millionaire and king of good fellows. Flynn knows the truth, of course, but he's shut as tight as a clam. He won't talk, for his own interests are involved."
"You expect me to play the part of good fellow," I broke out when I had sufficiently recovered from the shock of his information. "You expect me to entertain this motley aggregation of assorted criminals as Jerry Benham! Well, I won't, and that's flat."
"Now, Roger, don't be unreasonable," he said with a cajoling smile. "They're a pretty decent lot, really. Sagorski—the big chap with the fuzzy hair, he's not half bad when you know him; and Carty, the one with the cauliflower ear, his fight comes off inside of a week. We're helping him out, too, you see—good food, clean air—bully fellow—a little too finely drawn just now and a bit irritable—"
"I see. A bit irritable—so am I—"
"And then," he went on, "the other big fellow is Tim O'Halloran, my chopping block, has a nasty left—and is a demon for punishment. The little fellow is Kid Spatola, an Italian, one of my handlers, the bootblack champion. Oh, they're a fine lot, Roger—You'll get to like 'em. Nothing like being thrown with chaps a lot to know what they're like—inside of 'em, I mean."
"Quite true," I remarked with desperate calmness. "And who, if I may ask, is the colored gentleman in the yellow sweater?"
"Oh!" said Jerry pleasantly. "That's Danny Monroe, my rubber. He's the best masseur outside of Sweden, knows all the tricks; wait until you see him rubbing me down."