"You bet he is!" the proud father exclaimed, after my only half successful effort to lift the youngster. "He's going to be a prize-fighter, like his daddy;" and before I realized it I was initiated into the technicalities of the prize-ring. My new friend proved to be an aspirant for strange honours, especially strange when sought by a Jew. His ambition was to be a champion. "I was the foist one," he said, "to start the fighting business among the Jews. There's lots of 'em now." Why was he going over? His wife, a native of Hungary, had grown homesick for the Magyarland. She was dying of that most dreadful of all diseases, consumption; so her Ike and little Joe were going with her to Budapest. "Say," Ike confided, "I don't know what that Old Country is like; but I'll be hiking back to the good old Bowery in six weeks unless I'm mighty much mistaken." Little Joe, with all his weight, had nestled in my arms and grown quite affectionate. When we parted, he called me "Uncle," and I was properly proud of being the uncle of a future champion prize-fighter of the world. By the time the first bugle sounded for dinner I had tasted enough of the joys of this new fellowship; so I said good-night in four languages. Up to the deck and to my cabin door, I could hear little Joe calling after me in a voice like that of a lusty young rooster, "Good-night, uncle!" Dinner in the first cabin was fashionably quiet; for it was our first evening meal together, and we were measuring and scanning one another after the manner of fashionable folk, trying to decide with whom it was safe to speak. We reached the point of discussing the dinner and the merits of Italian cooking; we spoke of the weather and hoped it would remain so calm and beautiful all the way. Some of us even went so far as to ask our neighbour if this was the first trip over, which is a rather silly question to ask nowadays when every one has crossed the ocean a dozen times, except a few very extraordinary people. After dinner, as we lounged on deck, a lady, whose face I could not see, sat down beside me and said: "You don't approve ladies' smoking, do you?" With that, she drew from her silver case a cigarette, and put it to her lips. "I don't myself," she continued; "but I smoke because my whole nature is reacting against the Connecticut Puritanism in which I have been steeped. I don't enjoy smoking, at least my nerves don't; but my whole self takes pleasure in it because I have been told over and over again that I mustn't; so now I do. "I do everything, even drink cocktails, as you have seen. I do love to shock people."