I had just disembarked from the steamer and was about to seek out my hotel. Recently graduated from Harvard University, I had accepted a position as a law clerk in a small west coast seaport. I was attired in the height of New York fashion in a pin-striped grey serge suit, wearing pince-nez and with a supercilious expression. My hair was marcelled in the newly popular New York style, though I am from Boston. In short, I was the very figure of the well-to-do Eastern greenhorn.

   There were temporarily idle dock workers milling about the pier, a gang of brutal-looking toughs. They "sized me up" and it was hate at first sight. They began jeering at me and making obscene remarks reflecting adversely upon my manhood. 

   I tried to ignore them and brush by them but one muscular bully seized my shoulder and said "Where you goin', pansy ?" I barked "Unhand me, you ruffian", whereupon he bursted into uproarious laughter. I stepped back a pace and assumed the "Ready" posture from "The Manly Art of Self-Defense." That is, legs apart to form a firm foundation and with one fist before the other in front of my face.

   This posture embodies a tacit assumption that one's opponent is acquainted with the Marquis of Queensbury's rules and intends to abide by them. I am sure that this brute had never heard of the Marquis of Queensbury and that if he had been made acquainted with the rules would have derived great mirth from them."Oh, so it wants to fight, does it ?" he roared. The fight, if such it can be called, was very brief. Only one blow was struck. It came from behind the dock-worker's right hip and ended between my thighs.I never had any opportunity to use "The Manly Art of Self-Defense" I was too busy screaming, retching, and clutching at my mangled generative organs.

   I was overwhelmed not only by the intolerable agony which I was suffering, but by the shocking indecency of what had just been done to me. Fortunately, I did not remain conscious for very long. I awakened in a physician's surgery, sans luggage, sans wallet, sans pince-nez, and sans testicles. Dr. MacLaren assured me that having sustained third degree contusions my seminal glands had been rendered entirely and permanantly functionless and could not be saved.

   At my request, Dr. MacLaren telephoned my employer-to-be and informed him that I had been injured in a "accident" on the pier but would be able to report for work in a week. I was, and still am, devastated by my loss and soon decided that I must absorb myself utterly in my work at the law office to avoid thinking about my wretched state.I also decided never to tell my father what had happened to me. He would be greatly saddened by the prospect of never having any grandchildren.

   Financially, I have prospered, but I take no joy in it.Bereft of manhood, I lead a bleak loveless life.