“I just took him along and showed him to the management. They jumped at him. You see, the old boy’s appearance rather speaks for itself. Thank goodness, all this happened just when I had a few quid tucked away. By the greatest good luck I ran into George Tupper at the very moment when he had had word that they were going to make him an under-secretary or something—I can’t remember the details, but it’s something they give these Foreign Office blokes when they show a bit of class—and Tuppy parted with a tenner without a murmur. Seemed sort of dazed. I believe now I could have had twenty if I’d had the presence of mind to ask for it. Still,” said Ukridge, with a manly resignation which did him credit, “it can’t be helped now, and ten will see me through. The only thing that’s worrying me at the moment is what to call Billson.” “Yes, I should be careful what I called a man like that.” “I mean, what name is he to fight under?” “Why not his own?” “His parents, confound them,” said Ukridge, moodily, “christened him Wilberforce. I ask you, can you see the crowd at Wonderland having Wilberforce Billson introduced to them?” “Willie Billson,” I suggested. “Rather snappy.” Ukridge considered the proposal seriously, with knit brows, as becomes a manager. “Too frivolous,” he decided at length. “Might be all right for a bantam, but—no, I don’t like it. I was thinking of something like Hurricane Hicks or Rock-Crusher Riggs.” “Don’t do it,” I urged, “or you’ll kill his career right from the start. You never find a real champion with one of these fancy names. Bob Fitzsimmons, Jack Johnson, James J. Corbett, James J. Jeffries——” “James J. Billson?” “Rotten.” “You don’t think,” said Ukridge, almost with timidity, “that Wildcat Wix might do?” “No fighter with an adjective in front of his name ever boxed in anything except a three-round preliminary.” “How about Battling Billson?” I patted him on the shoulder. “Go no farther,” I said. “The thing is settled. Battling Billson is the name.” “Laddie,” said Ukridge in a hushed voice, reaching across the table and grasping my hand, “this is genius. Sheer genius. Order another couple of tawny ports, old man.” I did so, and we drank deep to the Battler’s success.