you could get without actually being in the ring itself. We were what you might call sitting pretty. Taking Fighting Paddy's etiquette hint, we were dolled up within an inch of our lives, as was everybody else, for that matter. There were no more people present than there are in Boston, and I question seriously if I'll ever be in such good company again as I was at that prize fight. All around us was Duke This and Lord That, and not ten feet away in a box was the Prince of Wales.
Honestly, that noted and likable young gentleman simple panicked Hazel! My charming girl friend could see nothing else. She just sat there, her eyes mucilaged on the boy like a starving collie outside a butcher shop.
"So that's the Prince of Wales?" she murmurs. "Well, he's certainly a cute kid! I wish he'd give us a tumble—they say he craves American girls."
That irritated me. "Listen, young lady," I says, "it wouldn't do him any good if he did give me a tumble, because I wouldn't go out with him any more than I would with any stranger, prince or no prince!"
"Good for you!" says Mr. Daft.
"So you wouldn't step out with the Prince of Wales, heh?" sneers Hazel. "Apple sauce!"
Further discussion along these lines was interrupted
