"Sure, I know, Hunk," says I, glancin' up at the clock uneasy and squirmin' a bit in the swing chair.
You see, this had been goin' on now for near an hour, and while it might be more or less entertainin' as well as true, I wa'n't crazy about listenin' to it all the afternoon. For one thing, I wa'n't comin' in on his scheme. Not a chance. I can be bilked into buyin' tickets for a raffle, even when I wouldn't take the junk that's put up as a gift, and I'm easy in other ways; but when it comes to any gate-money game, from launchin' a musical comedy to openin' a new boxin' club, I'm Tight Tommy with the time lock set. None in mine! I've had my guesses as to what the public wants, and I know I'm a perfectly punk prophet.
Besides, it was about time for J. Bayard Steele to show up with this gent from Washington, Cuyler Morrison De Kay, and—well, I'd just as soon not be bothered to explain Hunk Burley to a pair like that. You know the kind of bygone friends that do need explainin'—well, Hunk needed it bad; for as far as looks went he was about the crudest party that ever sported a diamond elephant stickpin or chewed twenty-five-cent cigars for a steady diet.
Built wide and substantial, Hunk was, with the longest arms you ever saw outside an iron cage, and a set of rugged features that had the Old Man of the Mountain lookin' like a ribbon clerk. Reg'lar cave dweller's face, it was; and with his bristly hair growin' down to a point just above his eyes, and the ear tufts, and the mossy-backed paws—well, if there ever was a throw-back to the Stone Age he was it.
As a rubber in my old trainin' camp outfit, though, Hunk had his good points. I've gone on the table to him with a set of shoulder muscles as stiff as a truck trace and inside of half an hour jumped up as limber as a whale-bone whip. And I'd never sign up for more'n a ten-round go without sendin' for Hunk first thing after the forfeits was up. Course, when it come to society, there was others I liked better, and I expect after I quit the ring I didn't take any particular pains to keep his name in my address book.
But Hunk was one of the old crowd that didn't need much dodgin'. He went his way like I went mine, and I hadn't seen him for years when he tramps into the studio here the other noon, treadin' heavy on his heels and wearin' this suit of peace-disturbin' plaids. He hadn't climbed the stairs just for any Auld Lang Syne nonsense, either. He was there on business.
That is, it seemed like business to him; for, in his special way, Hunk had been comin' along. He hadn't stuck to bein' a rubber. He'd done a strong-man turn with a medicine top for awhile, then he'd worked into the concession game on the county fair circuit, managed a Ferris wheel and carrousel outfit, and even swung an Uncle Tom troupe, with six real bloodhounds, through the town halls of fourteen States.
"Pullin' down the kale by the double handsful, mind you," says Hunk. "But no more! The movies has queered the Topsy business. Absolutely! I seen it comin' just in time, and I've been layin' low until I could find something to beat it. Say, I've got it too. Not for this territory. I'll give the film people two years more to kill themselves in the North, with the rot they're puttin' out. But in the South they ain't got such a hold, and the folks are different. They're just old style enough down there to fall for a street parade and fifty-cent seats on the blue benches. They got the coin too—don't make no mistake about that. And this Great Australian Hippodrome will make 'em loosen up like a Rube showin' his best girl what he can do throwin' baseballs at the dummies. Yea, Bo! It's the biggest bargain on the market too. Come in with me, Shorty, on a half int'rest, splittin' fifty-fifty."
"Too big a gamble, Hunk," says I. "I've seen more money dropped on ring shows than——"
"But we carry a pair of boxin' kangaroos," he breaks in eager, "that pulls an act they go nutty over. And our tribe of original wild Bush people has never been shown this side of Melbourne."