what does he do, he raises his mitt and hands me a wallop in the stomick it like to knock the wind out of me. That’s all. Sixteen months — — ”

“Yeh. I suppose this time next year he’ll be boxing for money.”

Elmer resumed his paper. “What do you know.” His tone mingled pity with contempt.

Nick took a last critical survey of the cracked mirror’s reflection and found it good. “Nothing, only this: you make me sick with your kids and your missus and your place. Say, don’t you never have no fun?”

“Fun! Why, say, last Sunday we was out to the beach, and the kid swum out first thing you know — — ”