And when we
finally went home with Maguire to see his other trophies, it seemed
to me like entering the tiger's lair. But an astounding lair it
proved, fitted throughout by one eminent firm, and ringing to the
rafters with the last word on fantastic furniture.
The trophies were a still greater surprise. They opened my eyes
to the rosier aspect of the noble art, as presently practised on
the right side of the Atlantic. Among other offerings, we were
permitted to handle the jewelled belt presented to the pugilist by
the State of Nevada, a gold brick from the citizens of Sacramento,
and a model of himself in solid silver from the Fisticuff Club in
New York. I still remember waiting with bated breath for Raffles
to ask Maguire if he were not afraid of burglars, and Maguire
replying that he had a trap to catch the cleverest cracksman alive,
but flatly refusing to tell us what it was. I could not at the
moment conceive a more terrible trap than the heavy-weight himself
behind a curtain. Yet it was easy to see that Raffles had accepted
the braggart's boast as a challenge.
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