me I have lost none of my potency as a pulse-quickener, and with that all settled I take stock of my opponent. I see a tall, nobbily dressed young fellow with shoulders like a set of walking beams and a whimsical quirk to his lip, a la Dick Barthelmess. Later, I found out that whimsical quirk was placed there by one Rough House Trainor, who used a right hook for the purpose. However, I have seen worse lookers than Hurricane Sherlock, though I've never hunted for any.
But prize fighters are about as thrilling to me as a lesson in swimming would be to a middle-aged goldfish, so I quickly snapped into it. I didn't care for the gentleman's approach and there is nobody going to push me around, whether they're light-heavyweight champion or dark-heavyweight champion!
"Did you wish a number?" I ask, as cold as a winter's night in dear old Siberia.
Mr. Hurricane Sherlock comes to earth with a start.
"Wam!" he says, half to himself and the other half to me. "What a disturbance you are! Where have I been all your life, good lookin'?"
"If you think that line will get you anything here, you're crazy!" I remark, and on each word is an iceberg so large it would be a menace to navigation. "What number do you want me to give you?"
"Well, let's start with your address," says Hurricane Sherlock, with the goofiest of grins.
