“ 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.
My formal introduction to my godchild took place on our return to Ebury Street, and—great as had been my respect for the man before—it left me with a heightened appreciation of the poten
