"Isn't this the type of man you'd call a bruiser?" she asked, with
a pretty trace of doubtful confidence in her technical knowledge on
the last word.
"That chap--Brownrigg? No. I should call him a gentleman. I'd have
given a good deal to see him fight. He always allowed his man to have
his chance, though there wasn't one in England he couldn't have
knocked out in the first round. He used to keep that glorious left
of his tucked up, as quiet as a pet spaniel under a lady's arm, till
he'd given his man time to show what he was worth. Then he'd shake
his shoulders, grin a bit with that ugly mouth--never with his
eyes--and plant his blow, the kick of a mule, and his man curled up
like a caterpillar on a hot brick. That stroke got to be known as
James Brownrigg's Waiting Left. I've met him. He kept a public house
up in Islington. Died about four years ago, with both fists clenched,
and his left still waiting. It's quite possible he kept it waiting
till he got to the gates of heaven."
Mrs. Durlacher looked up at the portrait again and then
half-shuddered her graceful shoulders.
"I suppose a man can be a gentleman and look like that," she said.
"But some one ought to have told him to grow his hair a little longer.
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