“So do I. I’d hate to have to ship you back to Philly, Al.”

He took another step, turned around very slowly, rested a shoulder against the wall, let his eyes get sleepy, and grunted:

“Huh?”

“If you were smacked down in the sixth or any other round by a palooka like Kid Cooper, it’d make me peevish,” I said. “Don’t do it, Al. You don’t want to go back to Philly.”

The youngster put his chin down in his neck and came back to me. When he was within arm’s reach, he stopped, letting his left side turn a bit to the front. His hands were hanging loose. Mine were in my overcoat pockets.

He said, “Huh?” again.

I said: