Bill thought this a fine joke and laughed out in great good humour.

"But I imagine you'd not be far behind either of them."

He looked at me a little suspiciously, as if doubtful what I was driving
at or whether or not I was joking him. But I was as serious as the face
of nature; and proceeded at once to get out my tape measure.

"I get very much interested in such things," I said, "and I had enough
curiosity to want to see how big your arm really was."

He smiled broadly.

"You're a queer one," said he.

But he took another bite of sandwich, and clenching his great fist drew
up his forearm until the biceps muscles looked like a roll of Vienna
bread--except that they had the velvety gleam of life. So I measured
first one arm, then the other.

"By George!" said I, "you're ahead of Fitzsimmons, but not quite up to
Sullivan."

"Fitz wasn't a heavy man," said Bill, "but a dead game fighter."

I saw then that I had him! So I sat down on the grass near by and we had
great talk about the comparative merits of Fitzsimmons and Sullivan and
Corbett and Jack Johnson, a department of knowledge in which he
out-distanced me. He even told me of an exploit or two of his own,
which showed that he was able to take care of himself.