THE COLLECTED WORKS OF GEORGE BERNARD SHAW. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

a boy to run errands or to clean windows. But somehow I hadn’t the cheek to go into the shops and ask. Two or three times, when I was on the point of trying, I caught sight of some cad of a shopman, and made up my mind that I wouldn’t be ordered about by HIM, and that since I had the whole town to choose from I might as well go on to the next place. At last, quite late in the afternoon, I saw an advertisement stuck up on a gymnasium, and, while I was reading it, I got talking to old Ned Skene, the owner, who was smoking at the door. He took a fancy to me, and offered to have me there as a sort of lad-of-all-work. I was only too glad to get the chance, and I closed with him at once. As time went on I became so clever with the gloves that Ned matched me against a light-weight named Ducket, and bet a lot of money that I would win. Well, I couldn’t disappoint him after his being so kind to me — Mrs. Skene had made as much of me as if I was her own son. What could I do but take my bread as it came to me? I was fit for nothing else. Even if I had been able to write a good hand and keep accounts I couldn’t have brought myself to think that quilldriving and counting other people’s money was a fit employment for a man. It’s not what a man would like to do that he must do in this world, it’s what he CAN do; and the only mortal thing I could do properly was to fight. There was plenty of money and plenty of honor and glory among my acquaintances to be got by fighting. So I challenged Ducket, and knocked him all to pieces in about ten minutes. I half killed him because I didn’t know my own strength and was afraid of him. I have been at the same work ever since. I was training for a fight when I was down at Wiltstoken; and Mellish was my trainer. It came off the day you saw me at Clapham; that was how I came to have a black eye. Wiltstoken did for me. With all my nerve and science, I’m no better than a baby at heart; and ever since I found out that my mother wasn’t an angel I have always had a notion that a real angel would turn up some day. You see, I never cared much for women. Bad as my mother was as far as being what you might call a parent went, she had something in her looks and manners that gave me a better idea of what a nice woman was like than I had of most things; and the girls I met in Australia and America seemed very small potatoes to me in comparison with her. Besides, of course they were not ladies. I was fond of Mrs. Skene because she was good to me; and I made myself agreeable, for her sake, to the girls that came to see her; but in reality I couldn’t stand them. Mrs. Skene said that they were all setting their caps at me — women are death on a crack fighter — but the more they tried it on the less I liked them. It was no go; I could get on with the men well enough, no matter how common they were; but the snobbishness of my breed came out with regard to the women. When I saw you that day at Wiltstoken walk out of the trees and stand looking so quietly at me and Mellish, and then go back out of sight without a word, I’m blessed if I didn’t think you were the angel come at last. Then I met you at the railway station and walked with you. You put the angel out of my head quick enough; for an angel, after all, is only a shadowy, childish notion — I believe it’s all gammon about there being any in heaven — but you gave me a better idea than mamma of what a woman should be, and you came up to that idea and went beyond it. I have been in love with you ever since; and if I can’t have you, I don’t care what becomes of me. I know I am a bad lot, and have always been one; but when I saw you taking pleasure in the society of fellows just as bad as myself, I didn’t see why I should keep away when I was dying to come. I am no worse than the dog-baker, any how. And hang it, Miss Lydia, I don’t want to brag; but I never fought a cross or struck a foul blow in my life; and I have never been beaten, though I’m only a middle-weight, and have stood up with the best fourteen-stone men in the Colonies, the States, or in England.”

      Cashel ceased. As he sat eying her wistfully, Lydia, who had been perfectly still, said musingly,

      “Strange! that I should be so much more prejudiced than I knew. What will you think of me when I tell you that your profession does not seem half so shocking now that I know you to be the son of an artist, and not a journeyman butcher or a laborer, as my cousin told me.”

      “What!” exclaimed Cashel. “That lantern-jawed fellow told you I was a butcher!”

      “I did not mean to betray him; but, as I have already said, I am bad at keeping secrets. Mr. Lucian Webber is my cousin and friend, and has done me many services. May I rest assured that he has nothing to fear from you?”

      “He has no right to tell lies about me. He is sweet on you, too: I twigged that at Wiltstoken. I have a good mind to let him know whether I am a butcher or not.”

      “He did not say so. What he told me of you, as far as it went, is exactly confirmed by what you have said yourself. But I happened to ask him to what class men of your calling usually belonged; and he said that they were laborers, butchers, and so forth. Do you resent that?”

      “I see plainly enough that you won’t let me resent it. I should like to know what else he said of me. But he was right enough about the butchers. There are all sorts of blackguards in the ring: there’s no use in denying it. Since it’s been made illegal, decent men won’t go into it. But, all the same, it’s not the fighting men, but the betting men, that bring discredit on it. I wish your cousin had held his confounded tongue.”

      “I wish you had forestalled him by telling me the truth.”

      “I wish I had, now. But what’s the use of wishing? I didn’t dare run the chance of losing you. See how soon you forbade me the house when you did find out.”

      “It made little difference,” said Lydia, gravely.

      “You were always friendly to me,” said Cashel, plaintively.

      “More so than you were to me. You should not have deceived me. And now I think we had better part. I am glad to know your history; and I admit that when you embraced your profession you made perhaps the best choice that society offered you. I do not blame you.”

      “But you give me the sack. Is that it?”

      “What do you propose, Mr. Cashel Byron? Is it to visit my house in the intervals of battering and maiming butchers and laborers?”

      “No, it’s not,” retorted Cashel. “You’re very aggravating. I won’t stay much longer in the ring now, because my luck is too good to last. I shall have to retire soon, luck or no luck, because no one can match me. Even now there’s nobody except Bill Paradise that pretends to be able for me; and I’ll settle him in September if he really means business. After that, I’ll retire. I expect to be worth ten thousand pounds then. Ten thousand pounds, I’m told, is the same as five hundred a year. Well, I suppose, judging from the style you keep here, that you’re worth as much more, besides your place in the country; so, if you will marry me, we shall have a thousand a year between us. I don’t know much of money matters; but at any rate we can live like fighting-cocks on that much. That’s a straight and businesslike proposal, isn’t it?”

      “And if I refuse?” said Lydia, with some sternness.

      “Then you may have the ten thousand pounds to do what you like with,” said Cashel, despairingly. “It won’t matter what becomes of me. I won’t go to the devil for you or any woman if I can help it; and I — but where’s the good of saying IF you refuse. I know I don’t express myself properly; I’m a bad hand at sentimentality; but if I had as much gab as a poet, I couldn’t be any fonder of you, or think more highly of you.”

      “But you are mistaken as to the amount of my income.”

      “That doesn’t matter a bit. If you have more, why, the more the merrier. If you have less, or if you have to give up all your property when you’re married, I will soon make another ten thousand to supply the loss. Only give me one good word, and, by George, I’ll fight the seven champions of Christendom, one down and t’other come on, for five thousand a side each. Hang the money!”

      “I am richer than you suppose,” said Lydia, unmoved. “I cannot tell you exactly how much I possess; but my income is about forty thousand pounds.”

      “Forty thousand pounds!” ejaculated Cashel.

      “Holy Moses! I didn’t think the queen had so much as that.”

      He paused a moment, and became very red. Then, in a voice broken by mortification, he said, “I see I have been