“Yes?” said Sally. This youth had a way of looking at her with his head cocked on one side as though he expected her to say something.
“Yes, sir!” said the stripling with emphasis. “Lew Lucas is a hot sketch. He used to live on the next street to me,” he added as clinching evidence of his hero's prowess. “I've seen his old mother as close as I am to you. Say, I seen her a hundred times. Is any stiff of a Bugs Butler going to lick a fellow like that?”
“It doesn't seem likely.”
“You spoke it!” said the lad crisply, striking unsuccessfully at a fly which had settled on the blotting-paper.
There was a pause. Sally started to rise.
“And there's another thing,” said the office-boy, loath to close the subject. “Can Bugs Butler make a hundred and thirty-five ringside without being weak?”
“It sounds awfully difficult.”
“They say he's clever.” The expert laughed satirically. “Well, what's that going to get him? The poor fish can't punch a hole in a nut-sundae.”
“You don't seem to like Mr. Butler.”
“Oh, I've nothing against him,” said the office-boy magnanimously. “I'm only saying he's no licence to be mixing it with Lew Lucas.”