Uh-huh! Mrs. Leavitt's a woman of her word. Soon as she can settle up things at the store, foreclose a few mortgages, and unload a few blocks of stock that can't be carried safe without watchin', it's goin' to be the grand European tour for her and Edwin, and maybe a house in town when they come back. "Which only goes to show, Mrs. McCabe," says I, "how it's never too late to discover that, after all, old Hubby's the one best bet on the card." "Pooh!" says Sadie. "It isn't always safe to let him know it, even if you have." CHAPTER XII A FIFTY-FIFTY SPLIT WITH HUNK "And believe me, Shorty," goes on Mr. Hunk Burley, tappin' a stubby forefinger on my knee, and waggin' his choppin'-block head energetic, "when I get behind a proposition yuh goin' to get some action." "Sure, I know, Hunk," says I, glancin' up at the clock uneasy and squirmin' a bit in the swing chair. You see, this had been goin' on now for near an hour, and while it might be more or less entertainin' as well as true, I wa'n't crazy about listenin' to it all the afternoon. For one thing, I wa'n't comin' in on his scheme. Not a chance. I can be bilked into buyin' tickets for a raffle, even when I wouldn't take the junk that's put up as a gift, and I'm easy in other ways; but when it comes to any gate-money game, from launchin' a musical comedy to openin' a new boxin' club, I'm Tight Tommy with the time lock set. None in mine! I've had my guesses as to what the public wants, and I know I'm a perfectly punk prophet. Besides, it was about time for J. Bayard Steele to show up with this gent from Washington, Cuyler Morrison De Kay, and--well, I'd just as soon not be bothered to explain Hunk Burley to a pair like that. You know the kind of bygone friends that do need explainin'--well, Hunk needed it bad; for as far as looks went he was about the crudest party that ever sported a diamond elephant stickpin or chewed twenty-five-cent cigars for a steady diet. Built wide and substantial, Hunk was, with the longest arms you ever saw outside an iron cage, and a set of rugged features that had the Old Man of the Mountain lookin' like a ribbon clerk. Reg'lar cave dweller's face, it was; and with his bristly hair growin' down to a point just above his eyes, and the ear tufts, and the mossy-backed paws--well, if there ever was a throw-back to the Stone Age he was it. As a rubber in my old trainin' camp outfit, though, Hunk had his good points. I've gone on the table to him with a set of shoulder muscles as stiff as a truck trace and inside of half an hour jumped up as limber as a whale-bone whip. And I'd never sign up for more'n a ten-round go without sendin' for Hunk first thing after the forfeits was up. Course, when it come to society, there was others I liked better, and I expect after I quit the ring I didn't take any particular pains to keep his name in my address book.