"But where?"
"Somewhere—I'll get it. Please, oh, please don't think about it any more."
He could tell, however, that she could not put it out of her mind. There was a look about her eyes that told him it weighed upon her. It disappeared when he held her in his arms and comforted her; she tried bravely to hide it from him, but it was there, in his mind, haunting him.
He came to his decision about the money for the funeral director quickly. He told her he was going to look for work and went to George Blake at his Spring street gymnasium. Blake, an instructor in boxing, had seen him spar in amateur bouts and had taken him in tow. He boxed because he liked it; never with a thought of ever fighting for money. Only a month before he had refused an offer of a bout at Jack Doyle's Vernon arena.
"George," he said, "can you get me a bout at Vernon?"
"What's the big idea?" asked Blake with a smile.
"I need the money."
"How soon?"
"As soon as I can get it."
"I'll see Wad Wadhams, tonight," Blake said. "If there's a place on the bill I'll get it for you."