“Better go away, sonny. He won’t want to give no autograph. He just don’t want to be fussed. He’s fought his fight. You let him have his quiet sit-down. That’s worth more to Johnny than his picture rights.” The little boy looked round them gravely. “Would you just give him this?” he said at length. “I know he’ll see me. He’ll be angry if you don’t tell him I’m here.” He waited a moment anxiously, holding the proffered envelope in his hand with an air of appeal. At last a man with a square head, closely shaven, and a perfect imitation of a cauliflower clinging to the side of it, reached out his hand. “What is it?” he demanded. “What’s your name?” “If you’ll just give him that,” said the little boy, “he’ll know.” The man went slowly away, and when he came back his countenance wore an expression of complete astonishment. “You’re to go in and see him,” he said resignedly. “And I’d like to know who you be. It’s the first time he’s ever said ‘Yes.’” The little boy went quickly across the room and into the little cabin at the farthermost end. Johnny Winter was sitting down, and as the little boy came in, the man who had been tubbing his legs moved out of the way and disappeared. Then Johnny swathed a dressing-gown about him and stood up. He was frowning, and he spoke vexedly. “Bobbie,” he said, “if I had thought you would have done a thing like this I would have made you promise. But I trusted you.” Bobbie Carr stood proudly and faced him. “I’ve never seen you fight in all my life,” said he. “I’ve never been allowed. And this is the last chance I should ever have. You taught me how to box, but you never let me see _you_ fight in earnest. Now I have and I’m satisfied.” His father was looking at him with extraordinary sorrow. “You were always ashamed that I should see you fight. You said that I should get wrong ideas. I’m not ashamed. I’m proud.” His father made a quick movement with his hand.