"How splendid! I'm sure it needs it. Railroads are the most disorganized and disorganizing—"
"And I'm engaged in a freight war with a rival steamship company. It's perfectly bully. I've got 'em backed off the map. We're carrying stuff for almost nothing and they're howling for help." He had taken out his pipe and was lighting it. "I'm going to buy 'em out," he finished. "But you don't want to hear about me. What are—"
"I do. Of course"—and she exchanged a quick glance with me. "Of course, I see a little about you in the papers—your interest in athletics—"
"Oh, I say, Una," he cried, flushing a dark red. "It's not fair to—"
"I'm fearfully interested," she persisted calmly. "You know it's actually gotten me into the habit of the sporting page. 'Walloping' Houligan and 'Scotty' Smith, the Harlem knock-out artist, are no longer empty names for me. They're real people with jabs and things."
"It's not kind of you—"
"I've been waiting breathlessly for your next encounter. I hope it's with 'Scotty.' It would be so much more of an achievement to win from a real knock-out artist—"
"Stop it, Una," he cried painfully. "I forbid you—"
"Do you mean," she asked innocently, "that you don't like to discuss—"
"I—I'd rather talk of something else," he stammered. "I've stopped boxing."