He stepped back and the two men squared off. The professional ducked a wild swing, led with his right and knocked the amateur down with such violence that he fairly splashed when he hit the floor. The master of ceremonies stood over the fallen one, counting him out. At eight the dazed youth got upon his knees. At nine he spoke in a husky whisper. The announcer raised his hand for silence. “Kid Binks also desires me to state,” he said, “that this is his last appearance in any ring.” § 254 Calculated to Work Improvements Two sympathetic friends called at a house of mourning in the Bronx. Mrs. Levinsky, wife of a wealthy white-goods importer, had passed away, following upon her return from a Southern trip. The callers were shown into the parlor where the bereft husband sat alongside the casket. They advanced and looked upon the face of the deceased. “Don’t she look wonderful?” said one of them. The widower raised his head. “Why shouldn’t she look wonderful?” he asked. “Didn’t she spend the whole winter at Palm Beach?” § 255 Improvements in the Language The infusion of Russian and Polish stocks into New York has been responsible for some curious additions to the language of the Manhattan Cockney. Most of us are familiar with the story of the small East-Side boy who told his father that what he liked best about the arithmetic he studied at school was Gozinta. “What do you mean, Gozinta?” asked his parent. “Why, 2 gozinta 4, 4 gozinta 8, 8 gozinta 16.” Of somewhat more recent coinage is the one which recites how a teacher asked if any member of her class knew the meaning of the word “Stoic.” Up rose a small second-generation American from Rivington Street. “Sure, teacher, I know what is a stoic,” he said. “Well then, Sidney, suppose you tell us what a stoic is.” “A stoic is the boid wot brings the babies.” But of all such yarns I believe I like best the tale of the transplanted Pole who had made a fortune by building cheap apartment-houses. He had just completed the erection of a flat-building near Riverside Drive, whereas theretofore all his operations had been confined to the more crowded down-town districts. A friend said to him: “Meyer, that’s a mighty nice-looking flat-building you’ve just put up. Have you got a name for it yet?” “Soitinly,” said the capitalist. “I’ve decided I should call it the Cloister Apartments.” “Strikes me as a rather curious name. Why call it that?” “Because,” said Meyer, “it’s cloister the subway, it’s cloister Central Park and its cloister the river.” § 256 An Abiding Delusion, Too A prominent citizen of an Oregon town was an ardent believer in the cult of mental-healing. Wherever possible this gentleman, with the zeal of a devotee, preached his doctrine. One day on the main street he hailed an impressionable youth from the country. “Billy,” he said, “how’s your daddy?”