“And none of ’em got even as far as a preliminary in the Garden after she got her hooks into them.”

“You tried to make her yourself, Charlie,” the Bearcat said defensively, quivering with a tortured fury. “I got plenty evidence you were playin’ up to her.”

Charlie stiffened.

“Ah, what the hell are you talkin’ about? I never made a wrong crack to her. I know that wench’s history. Why, goddam it, she’s been pickin’ up her meat in the fight ring since she was kicked out of school. Just lookin’ for someone who’ll think he’s havin’ a good time while she’s gettin’ their coin, like any hustler. . . . Why that lousy broad . . .”

The Bearcat reared up from his chair.

“Damn you, Charlie! She’s my wife, no matter what—an’ you can’t talk about her like that. We’re through, Charlie—through for good. See?”

Charlie’s face was a mask of scorn.

“I’ll say you’re through, if you don’t can this—”

The Bearcat cut him short.

“You’ve said enough. I ain’t askin’ you to spill no more. Get me?”

“No. I don’t get you at all. When the hell are you snappin’ out of your grog, and breakin’ the clinch with this here bum? Where’s your common sense? If you think you’re so goddam smart, just ask yourself what she’s done with the championship that was as good as yours, the night you set the sport world on fire up in Harlem, with the big final? You were class then. And what’ve you done? Chucked it all overboard for a slut—a woman that’s taken all the steam out of your system and sent you down for the count. You wanted me to wish you luck when you got married, wanted me to congratulate you. For what? For this? She’ll pull you down to a ham fighter beggin’ for ten dollar bouts. Through? You said it, kid.”

“You’re just sore ’cause I married Babe,” the Bearcat growled.

“Bein’ married is all right—I ain’t complainin’ about that. I wouldn’t mind if you married the right kind of a woman. There’s plenty of fighters that’s married and got families, too, but their wives are helpful to ’em. Take good care of them; see that they eat right and lead a regular life; they don’t wear ’em out. They’re not good-time mammas like this dame you’re hitched up to.” As Charlie got up he said: “But, aw nuts! what’s the use of talkin’ about it? What’s done is done.”

He walked to the door. Then his attitude underwent a change. He laughed. A note of derision was in it. It sent a chill up the Bearcat’s spine.

“So this is love! A goddam belly ache, that’s what it is!” The door slammed after him.