"Why?" he asked, his eyes innocently on mine. "It's perfectly feasible."
"How would you get the match? Do you suppose any promoter would look at you? Would any champion? Would his manager let him? Remember that championship's a business. Champions make money as long as they're champions and no longer. They take no risks. And part of their business is to sidestep dangerous matches."
But he had an answer to that that evidently seemed to him conclusive. His eyes sparkled.
"Exactly! That's the very reason I picked Carpentier. Carpentier, man, Georges Carpentier! He isn't a sidestepper! He's the most thoroughgoing sportsman alive! Look at the way he gave that Yorkshire lad his match! Sidestep, that Frenchman? Look here. You know I speak French like a native. Well, I shouldn't in the least mind going straight up to him and putting the whole proposition before him."
"That you were out after his championship and incidentally his living?"
"Yes, and I jolly well know what he'd do."
"So do I. He'd turn you over to Descamps and the negotiations would last a couple of years. That isn't instantaneous."
"He'd do nothing of the sort. That great fellow?... Kiss me. He'd kiss me on both cheeks, shout 'C'est ça!' and tell Descamps to fix it up straight away. Of course I wouldn't hurt him."
I stared. "Could you put Carpentier out?"
He laughed. A laugh was his reply.