"Nice of those chaps, very, considering the way I've treated 'em, but it's no go. I've finished."
Jack had ventured out to brave the storm and I sat quietly, scarcely daring to hope that I had heard correctly.
"I'm done, Roger," he repeated. "No more fights for me. I staked everything on science and head-work. I failed. He got me—somewhere that hurt like the devil—and I saw red. I don't remember much after that except that I was as much of a brute as he was. I failed, Roger, failed miserably. The fellow that can't hold his temper has no business in the ring."
His voice was heavy, like his manner, weary, disappointed, and as he threw off his dressing gown I saw that his left arm was hideously discolored from wrist to shoulder.
"Does it hurt?" I asked.
"What? Oh, my arm. No. But I'm sore inside of me Roger, my mind I mean. To do a thing like that, and fail—that's what hurts. Because I hadn't will enough—"
"You're in earnest, then," I asked, "about not fighting again?"
"Yes. I'm through—for good." And then boyishly, "But I didn't quit, Roger, did I?"
"I think any unprejudiced observer will admit that you didn't quit," I said. "Clancy, I'm sure, knows better than anybody."
"Good old Clancy. He was a sight—but he squared things. I saw that knockout coming, but I couldn't move for the life of me. My arms wouldn't come up. By George—that was a wallop! Oh well," he sighed, "the better man won. I'm satisfied."