“A parable?”
“That’s right. A—what you said. Well, this Kid Mitchell was looked on as a coming champ in those days. He had cleaned up some good boys, while I had only gotten a rep about as big as a nickel with a hole in it. I guess I looked pie to him. He turkey-trotted up to me for the first round and stopped in front of me as if he was wondering what had blown in and whether the Gerry Society would stand for his hitting it. I could see him thinking ‘This is too easy’ as plain as if he’d said it. And then he took another peek at me, as much as to say, ‘Well, let’s get it over. Where shall I soak him first?’ And while he’s doing this I get in range and I put my left pretty smart into his lunch-wagon and I pick up my right off the carpet and hand it to him, and down he goes. And when he gets up again it’s pretty nearly to-morrow morning and I’ve drawn the winner’s end and gone home.”
“And the moral?”
“Why, don’t spar. Punch! Don’t wait for the wallop. Give it.”
“You mean?”
“Why, when old man Bannister says: ‘Nix! You shall never marry my child!’ come back at him by saying: ‘Thanks very much, but I’ve just done it!’”
“Good heavens, Steve!”
“You’ll never win out else. You don’t know old man Bannister. I do.”
“But——”
The door-bell rang.