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 and some New Jersey Scotch. I fell for the smokes, but passed the brew up, as it's a hobby of mine not to take embalmin' fluid till after I'm actually dead!

"Well, yegg," I says, "what's your racket? And, remember, I don't help you stick up no banks!"

"Why get rosey with me?" says Eddie in a pained voice. "Why can't me and you be friends?"

"Why can't a rat and a ferret be friends?" I sneer. "Eddie, you're as crooked as a ball player's thumb! You been wrong all your life and when you bump off you'll proposition the devil for the asbestos concession in Hades and then gyp him. They're holdin' mail for you now at Sing Sing! Why should I find you tasty?"

"For one thing," says Eddie, unmoved, as he pours himself a generous snifter, "I'm goin' to give you a fight with Young. Think that over!"

I leaped off the chair.

"If you're clowin' about this, I'll cook you!" I says. "Where's the phone? We'll get the sport writers here and"

"Don't get so swift!" interrupts Eddie, holdin' up his hand. "We're champion and we'll call all plays, get me? You guys got to do what papa tells you. I says we'd fight you and we'll do that thing—the minute you knock Fred Fleming and Kayo Ford for a loop!"

I sunk back with a groan.

"You big stiff!" I hollered when I got my breath. "Some day they'll pinch you for tryin' to get a camel through the eye of a needle! We got to stop Ford and Fleming first, hey? That's like a guy havin' to

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 dive off Brooklyn Bridge to prove he's able to step into a bathtub full of water!"

"If Kid Roberts thinks he can take the champ, why should a couple of pushovers like Ford and Fleming disturb him?" asks Eddie coolly.

"Pushovers, hey?" I howled. "Ford has win his last fifteen fights by knockouts and Fleming ain't never been slapped off his feet. Why, you mock orange, I think either of 'em could make that big tramp of yours love it and you think so, too!"

"Be yourself!" says Eddie scornfully. "Here's the layout—take it or leave it. Kid Roberts has went back so far that nobody gives him a chance with Bob Young. Put 'em in a ring to-morrow and the only attendance would be the handlers and the referee! The Kid's got to be built up with the fans. On the other hand, both Ford and Fleming has a big followin'. Lots of maniacs like you think either of 'em would extend Young and that both is entitled to a crack at the champ on their records, All right! Let Roberts go out and knock 'em kickin' and the public will think he's good, won't they? Sure, they will! Then we'll throw Young and Roberts in the ring and nine million nuts will claw each other to get through the gate! If Kid Roberts really feels that Young's got the skin he'd love to touch, that's the way it'll happen or we don't box you. Well, c'mon, what are you thinkin' about?"

"Honest to Boston, I could get deported for what I'm thinkin' about you, you scissor bill!" I says, glarin' at him.

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 "See if I care!" grins Eddie, and I beat it, slammin' the door on his laughin': "Happy Arbor Day!"

That was the tip-off, of course, that Toledo Eddie hadn't the faintest intentions of lettin' Bob Young fight Kid Roberts if there was any way out of it. Both Knockout Ford and Fred Fleming was as tough as a year in jail. I'd seen 'em go and I knew what they had—and it was enough, don't think it wasn't! A month before, they'd stepped fifteen rounds to a gory enough draw to of satisfied Nero! Toledo Eddie figured he was sittin' pretty by makin' us meet 'em before fightin' his champ. This jazzbo thought it a cinch that one or the other would knock the Kid off and thus put him in the discard as a challenger. In any event, the time we'd spend in makin' and trainin' for these two matches would lay the angry sport writers off Young and further postpone a bout with Kid Roberts.

I was still burnt up when I dashed back to our hotel and give Kid Roberts the low-down on matters. The nervous Kid has been impatiently pacin' the room waitin' to hear the result of the interview, whilst the 200-pound Ptomaine Joe was writin' a burlesque on a letter to some cutey. Just as I come in, Ptomaine looks up with a goofy grin on his weird pan and craves to know how many "u's" they is in the word "love."

I throwed a chair cushion at Ptomaine and immediately laid Toledo Eddie's proposition before Kid Roberts, expectin' him to go right up in flames like I did. My idea was to turn Eddie down cold, ask the newspapers to call the public's attention to the way Young

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 was duckin' a fight with the Kid and demand Young or nobody! I even thought of claimin' the world's championship, since Young refused to box us for it. Ptomaine Joe generously offered to fight Knockout Ford and Fred Fleming in the same ring, just to get 'em out of the Kid's way. The air is full of advice and wild schemes, when Kid Roberts cuts us both off short.

"Boys, perhaps Toledo Eddie is right!" he says. "Maybe the sporting public would like to see me dispose of Ford and Fleming before going against the champion. You know it's months since they've seen me with gloves on around here. I also think that a couple of stiff fights under my belt before meeting Young would be the greatest training I could possibly get and"

"But why take a chance, Kid?" I butt in. "You rate a fight with Young right now and we all know that means the world's title and a million bucks for you. On the other hand, Ford and Fleming—well, you know how good them birds is! Suppose one of 'em should get lucky and bounce you? Even Young don't wish no part of them guys! It looks like a sucker play to me, Kid—let's hold out for the champ or nobody!"

But Kid Roberts shakes his head.

"Joe, that would only be delaying the inevitable," he says. "If I met and defeated Young now, I'd have to give either Ford or Fleming first chance at the championship, as they'd still be the outstanding contenders. I never got anywhere avoiding an issue and I'm not going to start that system now! Toledo Ed-

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 die's ultimatum at least offers immediate action and that's what I want more than anything else. Also, I need the money! Get me Ford and Fleming on the best terms you can make. I'll be ready to fight in a month."

"I'll feel out Knockout Ford's manager, then," I says, with a sigh. "We'll take Ford first, because I think Fleming's the most poisonous of the two!"

"Get me Fleming, then!" bawls Ptomaine. "I'll be right in a month myself!"

"You big blah!" I sneer. "You couldn't lick Fleming's grandmother!"

"I would if she got giddy with me," says Ptomaine. "No foolin'!"

Well, it wasn't hard to sign Knockout Ford with Kid Roberts and just twice that easy to get a promoter to stage the combat. I gambled on 35 per cent of the gate and as it turned out we drew down for our bit $23,674.85. What the promoter give Ford I never did find out and I don't care. I only know what Kid Roberts give him, which was a-plenty!

I readied the Kid in Sapville, a slab up New York State, about fifty miles from Broadway. Besides Ptomaine, I brought along Jimmy de Long, the greatest trainer of fighters which ever went behind one! I also carried Jack Hill and Battlin' Vernon, a couple of good, beefy heavies which could take it, and Ollie Pierce, a fast welterweight, to develop the Kid's speed. With the prospects of a crack at the heavyweight crown's tarin' him in the face if he got past Knockout Ford, Kid Roberts took to his trainin' like a famished rabbit

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 takes to a leaf of cabbage and soon had his weary handlers wishin' they had entered the ministry instead of the ring!

The daily routine at the camp run as smaoth as a lawyer's tongue and the only annoyance was the burly Mr. Ptomaine Joe. The Kid says Ptomaine kept him from gettin' the blues, but to me he was just unnecessary overhead! He never could master the first rule of boxin', which is simply to keep yourself off the floor. His idea of conditionin' himself for a mill was to go out and get a shampoo and his face massaged and it was the same as impossible to keep him off the gin and on the gym.

The two unlucky bouts of Ptomaine's in which he run a poor second by no means killed off his interest in the manly art of breakin' noses. Day or night there wasn't a minute that he wasn't pesterin' me to get him a scrap with anyone, any weight, any color, over any distance, and at any price! Even the Kid kept urgin' me to give this tamale a chance, so to keep 'em both quiet and present myself with some rest, I signed Ptomaine to swap swings with Two-Punch McGazzati, heavyweight champion of Lake Erie, in a six-round preliminary to the Kid Roberts-Knockout Ford meelee.

"You think I'm a mug, hey?" says Ptomaine joyfully, when I told him he was scheduled for another fearful pastin'. "Well, you're due for the surprise of your life. I'll clout 'at mock turtle so cold 'at when he comes to his clothes won't fit him!"

"If you're able to answer the gong for round two, you'll surprise me to the swoonin' stage!" I says. "Still

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 and all, maybe you can cope with Two-Punch McGazzati, at that. He ain't fought for a year, so he should be a spread for you."

"Why ain't he fought for a year?" asks Ptomaine.

"Oh, he's just been under suspension," I says carelessly. "He killed the last guy he boxed!"

"For cryin' out loud!" gasps Ptomaine. "You pick 'em soft for me, don't you? How much sugar do I get for executin' this murderer?"

"Ptomaine," I says seriously, "if by some mysterious miracle you smack this fellow down, your wages for the afternoon's work will be three hundred bucks. Should he stop you, somethin' that's certain, not only do you not get a nickel—but I'm goin' to fine you five hundred fish for wastin' my time in carryin' you along! If that's too rich for your blood, you can cancel the bout right now!"

Ptomaine tries the terrific feat of thinkin'.

"Get me that big false alarm," says this clown, after a minute. "I got three hundred iron men saved and like as not I can borrey the other two hundred from the Kid."

I have met some maniacs in this game, but that's the first one I run across yet which was dyin' to pay five hundred smackers for the privilege of bein' knocked for a Flemish bath-house!

Well, to make a short story long, about ten days before Kid Roberts is to fight Knockout Ford nothin' less than a movin-picturemovin'-picture [sic] outfit arrives in the hamlet where we're camped. I had long ago closed our trainin' quarters to visitors, like I always do during the last

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 few days' gruellin' workouts, even the open-mouthed hicks from the village bein' barred. One mornin' when I go down to the little post office for the mail, a jobbie comes up to me and accuses me of bein' Joe Murphy, world-famous manager of the world-famous Kid Roberts.

I broke down and pleaded guilty to the charge, and the stranger's next imitation was to identify himself. He's Mr. Hubert de Grasse, he brags, and he baffles the almshouse by directin' the movies of the unreasonably beautiful Myrtle Magnificent, of Earthquake, Cal., who I must of heard tell of. I never had and could prove it, but I yessed him, anyways. Hubert then testified that his company is there on location makin' some scenes of "Cuckoo Husbands," Myrtle's latest yokel-thriller, and they would like nothin' better than to see Kid Roberts train.

I told Mr. Director that I deeply sympathized with him, but his request was out, as Kid Roberts was on the brinks of a important fight and nobody could see him but his handlers, not even President Coolidge. Hubert de Grasse pleaded and coaxed, but I was so firm that alongside of me the Rock of Gibraltar would look like a jelly! Even when Hubert called over Myrtle Magnificent herself to help him, there was no give to me. That shows the world I'm strong-minded, as this iris-soothin' disturbance had more curves than a guy pitchin' a no-hit game and a smile which would distract attention from that kind of a contest! But I was Myrtle-proof, so I just says nothin' stirrin', give 'em a polite bow to split between 'em and danced off. I

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 thought that was the end of 'em, but I couldn't think my way into a clean collar!

Gettin' exactly no service from me, this magic-lantern director turns his attentions to the half-wit of our party, Ptomaine Joe. Every time I sent the silly Ptomaine into town for somethin' we needed, Hubert and Myrtle promoted him unbeknownst to me. They fussed all over the big banana, let him watch 'em "shootin their idiotical movie from a place right beside the camera, introduced him to all the female members of the troupe, and told him it was a rotten shame he took up boxin' instead of pictures, as they could plainly see by viewin' him that a wonderful actor was lost to the public. You can imagine the effect all this hokum had on a guy like Ptomaine, which as usual had crashed wildly in love with Myrtle the first time he looked at this panic. Here he was bein' allowed the rare boon of seein' a movie bein' made from the inside, caperin' around with the beautiful bathin' girls durin' his spare moments and bein' heartily assured by one and all that he was the crocodile's watch fob! A few days of this thomas foolery and Ptomaine was walkin' on air. He didn't know what it was all about, but he's as happy as a girl with her first engagement ring and useless to me at our camp.

As a further bribe to Mr. Ptomaine—already sold, if they only knew it—Myrtle hung around this gil continuously, even goin' to the extent of posin' for publicity photos with him. In return, Ptomaine told her he was the greatest scrapper since Cain, had fought 386 battles, only lost one, and that with a heavily

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 armed gorilla. But this mug surrendered completely when the director puts a uniform and make-up on him and lets him appear before the camera as a policeman in a brief scene with Myrtle. That scene was a wow!

Meanwhile, Ptomaine's trainin' for Two-Punch McGazzati was absolutely forgot, in spite of the tact that I constantly reminded him he'd get beat up for nothin' and have to pay a fine of $500 on top of that if he lost.

"Stop squawkin'!" he tells me. "Myrtle's goin' to watch 'at fight and with her lookin' on out of them hypnotizin' navy-blues eyes of hers, I'll lay 'at blank cartridge like a rug!"

No kiddin', them movie birds should of been jailed for cruelty to animals for the run-around they give that baby!

As the results of all this, Ptomaine managed to prevail on Kid Roberts to secretly meet his admirers, which was all they was after from the start. When I fin'ly bump Ptomaine off, I'll go before any jury in the world and tell 'em only a tenth of my reasons for croakin' the big dumb-bell and they'll not only let me go; they'll give me a lovin' cup!

Ptomaine frames the meetin' to take place whilst him and the Kid is supposed to be out doin' road work one day. The instant they shook hands, the fascinatin' Myrtle Magnificent begins doin' her stuff and she put everything she had—plenty!—on the ball. Her open admiration and the combined pleadin's of the rest of her gang wins the good-natured Kid Roberts over in no time at all, and although I yelled murder, he let's 'em

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 come out to see him wind up his trainin' for Knockout Ford. That was one of the most fatal invitations he ever extended in his life and showed me that courtesy was no virtue, but a vice!

Not content with bein' a privileged spectator in the trainin' camp, Hubert de Grasse wants to set up a camera and take some movies of Kid Roberts and his sparrin' partners. But even the Kid balked at that, whilst I told this director that if I had his nerve I'd bottle the Hudson River and sell it for orangeade! How the so ever, the busy Myrtle went to work on Kid Roberts, assisted by the love-lorn Ptomaine, and once again they score a win! The director swears on the hotel register that the pictures won't be showed till long after the Kid has fought Knockout Ford ard then would only be used as "atmosphere" in "Cuckoo Husbands," the film they're makin'. He points out the publicity it would mean for Kid Roberts and how other fighters, equally as famous, had not scorned to appear before the humble camera. Honest, that guy talked steady for a hour and then Myrtle relieved him.

She started her summin' up by statin' that "Cuckoo Husbands" would make or break her with the public and the world knew how anxious she is to have everything double perfect. Thus, fight scenes made at a real fighter's camp would naturally have it all over anything faked at a movie studio, etc. In jumps Mons de Grasse at this critical point to add that of course they was willin' to pay for the honor. Seein' that Kid Roberts was goin' to let 'em have their will with him,

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 anyways, that last crack of the director's appealed to me. I quoted him a price which I figured would knock him insensible, but he calmly says my figure is jake with him and writes me a check. I got it yet—try and cash it!

But it was really Myrtle Magnificent which made the Kid consent to bein' filmed. That very mornin' she had captured his unqualified admiration by doin' some blood-curdlin' feats of recklessness in a plane flown by a stunt flyer and supposedly the big thrill of the picture. Courage is the one thing Kid Roberts is crazy about and has more of himself than anybody I ever played around with. So he tells me that if this charmin' girl is willin' to risk that schoolgirl complexion and her young life by cuttin' capers on the wing of a airplane slicin' the breeze at a hundred miles the hour, he's willin' to risk breakin' a rule by lettin' her camera him for her movie.

Accordin'ly a battery of cameras and these fearful Kleig lights is set up around the trainin' ring and every move of Kid Roberts photographed from every possible angle. The director was particularly keen on what he calls "close-ups" and took a flock of these, especially of the Kid's most effective punches, many of which we had just invented for this highly important setto with Knockout Ford.

Three days of this stuff and I chased the movie company out of the camp on the run! Only for Kid Roberts I would of murdered 'em all in hot blood, for I'm red-headed with rage. The Kid's got to step in the ng with Kayo Ford in less than forty-eight hours

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 and he can't see a foot in front of him out of two redly swollen and highly inflamed eyes!

It had seemed to me from the first that them blindin' lights had been placed much too close to the trainin' ring and likewise there appeared to be entirely too many of 'em. The director, how the so ever, had soothin'ly explained to me that all this was necessary to get the best results. He said a tongueful!

The day of the big fight, Kid Roberts wakes up with his eyes still in bad shape, though some of the inflammation has went down. Myrtle Magnificent talked her way past the guards I had outside the camp and give the Kid a lotion to put on his burn glims. She tells the Kid that she's worse than terrible sorry for bein' nothin' but grief to him, but she adds that he's merely got a slight touchof "Kleig eyes," which they all fall prey to in the movies. It's nothin' to worry about, says Myrtle, and will quickly pass away once he plasters 'em with the goo she give him. She's another one which should of been gave the last lesson first!

Well, as if the trouble with the Kid's eyes ain't enough to poison us that day a hitch comes up at the last minute over the referee. The promoter has me on long-distance nearly all mornin', fin'ly insistin' that I come right down to New York and help straighten matters out personally. I grabbed Ptomaine and went ahead, leavin' Kid Roberts to shove off later by auto with the other handlers, so's he'd attract as little attention as possible. The Kid always hated display in anything from clothes to humans.

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 As Ptomaine's pettin' party with Two-Punch McGazzati was scheduled to go at 8 p. m.—bein' the first preliminary—I sent him out to the abattoir, whilst I started over to the promoter's office to tend to the squawk about the third man in the ring. I didn't care who Knockout Ford's choice was—all me and the Kid wanted was a guy which could count up to ten!

I'm millin' through Times Square, tossed this way and that by the excited mob which is pourin' into the subway en route to the fight, when somebody grabs at my coat. Holdin' on to my watch and roll, I swung around, but it wasn't no dip had me. It was "Honest-Dollar" Reilly, one of the biggest gamblers which ever was ready to lay eight to five it would rain or eight to five it wouldn't. I still held on to my valuables. Reilly had a flock of hooch under his belt—in fact, his tongue should of been plastered with revenue stamps!

"Well, well, well!" he chortles. "See who we have here! You better watch your step, Mister Sap, or some of these city slickers will sell you Grant's Tomb! How d'ye like the movies?"

"What movies?" I ask him.

"Ha, ha, ha!" bust out Reilly. "What movies, hey! Well, what a Patsy they made out of you!"

"How come, Reilly?" I snapped out, grabbin' his arm. Did you ever have a feelin' that somethin' tough was goin' to happen? I had it plenty right then!

"I'll tell you how come and then you'll take arsenic!" grins Reilly. "You and your box fighter has fell for one of the rawest frames ever pulled off in this man's

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 town! That movie company you entertained up-State was the bunk, the so-called Myrtle Magnificent don't know a lens from a ice-cream freezer and the alleged director was only sprung from the Big House two weeks ago. The rest of the gang was his mob and they're good, I'll say they're good!"

I'm dumfounded!

"But, look here, what was the big idea?" I gasp, in a panic-stricken voice. "Why should they clown with us?"

"Clown your grandmother!" says Reilly. "Them birds don't never clown—they did a first-class job! They've just about made Kid Roberts a set-up for Knockout Ford, that's all. The Kid's a nine-to-five favorite now, which means somebody will cut a juicy meron wien your boy goes out! The near-movie gang was hired by the big operatorsand, listen, I had nothin' to do with it. I don't mind stripes in a suit, but I don't want to wear that suit for no ten years, get me?"

"But what—" I began wildly.

"Gimme a chance to talk, will you?" Reilly cuts me off. "Every night the movies of the Kid's daily workouts was rushed to New York, where every punch was carefully studied by Knockout Ford and his pilot. That's just one angle. They put a lot of dazzlin' lights around the ring up in your camp, didn't they? Sure, they did! Well, how's the Kid's eyes to-day? I'll lay eight to five he couldn't see the East River from Brooklyn Bridge!"

"But that—that woman gave him a lotion," I pants,

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 almost speechless as the whole double-cross dawns on me. "She says—"

"I told you them birds was good!" butts in Reilly, half admirin'ly. "They overlook nothin'! That lotion was a great touch. I can figure what was in it—it'll about blind him!"

I waited to hear no more! I didn't even think to ask "Honest-Dollar" Reilly where he got all this dope. I'm dashin' away to phone the camp, when Reilly stops me.

"You can't do nothin' now," he says. "Not a thing! Remember that aviator which flew Myrtle around up there?"

I nod my head dizzily, wonderin' what else was comin'!

"Well," says Reilly, "unless somethin' slipped up, Kid Roberts is on his way here now in a plane with Mister Stunt Flyer at the helm. And wait—just wait till your battler gets out of that airplane!"

I phoned the camp—and got: "They don't answer!"

At the gate of the arena I got to identify myself to forty guys to even get inside, and the first one to greet me is Ptomaine Joe. He's on his way back to the dressin' room, his bout bein' all over. Honest, he looks like a catastrophe on its way to occur somewheres! The only place on him which ain't cut and bruised is under his arms. I stopped him.

"How did you make out?" I ask.

Ptomaine gloomily sticks his hand into a pocket of his bathrobe and drags out a greasy roll of bills "There's your sve hundred!" he muttered. "Two

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 Punch McGazzati let 'em both go at once. A fool and his money is soon parted!"

And, with bowed head, the battered Ptomaine stumbled on amidst the razzin' of the jeerin' mob.

At 10 p. m.—the hour set for the principals in the big fight to enter the ring—there was no sign of Kid Roberts, but Knockout Ford comes down the aisle with his handlers and climbs through the ropes, hailed with a wild storm of cheers. Sun-darkened face heavily vaselined to avoid as may cuts as possible, brawny body cocoa-buttered over the rollin' bulgin' muscles, he looked ready—and that word covers it all! The referee and the announcer comes in and talks matters over with the timekeepers. Ptomaine turns up, his swollen pan a mass of court plaster, to go in Kid Roberts's corner. I killed a little time by walkin' over and carefully examinin' the bandages on Ford's hands and inspectin' the br-and-new gloves layin' in their box at the middle of the ring. Still no sign of Kid Roberts and, believe me, I'm pretty low! Almost as worried and nervous as I am as he looks over the sea of excited faces, the promoter paces up and down outside the ring. He'd never phoned me about the referee at all! The newspaper guys, busy beside their clickin' telegraph instruments sendin' in the preliminary stuff, are askin' me what's the matter with the Kid? Where is he? The crowd takes that important question up with a continuous howl and stampin' of 35,000 pairs of impatient feet.

Suddenly the loud buzzin' of a propeller rises above the noise of the mob and a airplane circles over the

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 arena. At first, only me and a small part of the attendance looked up. There was nothin' unusual in the sight and what they craved to see was Kid Roberts. Well, they seen him!

To the amazement of the crowd, the plane begins a series of absolutely maniacal stunts right over the ring. Loop-the-loops, fallin' leafs, barrel rolls, nose dives, tail spins, flyin' upside down and dizzy side slips that soon had a steady roar of "Oh's!" and "Ah's!" comin' from the crowd, every face of which was now turned upward. Knockout Ford's handlers stared gapin'ly into the sky, but Ford and his manager was grinnin' from ear to ear into my horrified face, because they knew who was the passenger in that plane and so did I!

At last the plane swoops down and comes to a landin' in a clear space over by the dressin' rooms, me and Ptomaine reachin' it whilst the propeller was still whirlin' to a stop. Ptomaine bellers like a angry bull when he sees Kid Roberts, chalk-faced and limp, strapped to the passenger's seat, but I was past bellerin' as I rushed to the Kid's side and begin to unstrap him. The aviator, a burly giant, starts to climb out with a sneerin' grin which instantly left his face like magic. Ptomaine's iron fist, with two hundred pounds of ragin' bone and muscle behind it, caught him flush on the chin and he crashed against the side of his machine to drop to the turf as if struck by lightnin'! For that, I reached in my pocket and crammed Ptomaine's five-hundred-buck "fine" back in his willin' hands. We half lifted the dazed Kid Roberts out of his seat and

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 got him through a swiftly growin' astonished mob into his dressin' room, where he fell on the rubbin' table and panted for breath like a freshly hooked trout.

"Go out and tell the promoter and the newspaper guys to come in here right away!" I say to Ptomaine. "We got to postpone this fight! We can't—"

"Nonsense—I'm all right!" butts in the Kid, gaspin'ly. "That flyer must have gone crazy. Joe! He"

I shut him off to tell him quickly all "Honest-Dollar" Reilly had spilled in my ears and you never in your life seen a guy do a snap-in like Kid Roberts done when I got through! The newspapers panned me to a fare-thee-well for lettin' the Kid go in there in the shape he was in, but I simply couldn't stop the boy. He was a ravin' maniac which wanted Knockout Ford's heart, what I mean!

The thunderin' cheer which greeted Kid Roberts as he reached the ring a half hour later immediately give way to a groan as he staggered and almost fell tryin' to climb through the ropes. His eyes was red-rimmed and smartin' from them Kleig lights and Myrtle Magnificent's "lotion," he's still sick and sufferin' from that wild ride through the clouds, but his jaw is set hard, his head up, and his gamester's heart pumpin' fightin' blood through his powerful body! When they come together for the referee's instructions in the middle of the ring, Knockout Ford sized the shaky Kid up and licked his lips expectantly. The big crowd, lookin' for a quick, spectacular finish, sat quiet and tense. I had the towel ready to toss in early, seein' our champion-

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 ship hopes gone glimmerin', It was a wake in our corner, no foolin'!

At the bell, Knockout Ford was across the ring like a streak, catchin' Kid Roberts in his own corner with a straight left which rocked the Kid's head and brung ithe first of a cloudburst of yells from the mob. Again Ford said it with a left and the Kid missed a right cross by a foot. Ford, boxin' confidently and prettily, countered hard with his monotonous left, makin' the Kid look like a sucker for that punch. They clinched and on the break the Kid caught Ford on the ear with a right and followed that with a right and left to the wind, but the blows seemed to lack the old steam. No wonder! Ford felt the Kid's weakness and commenced walkin' in wide open with crushin' lefts and rights to the head and-body. He drove Kid Roberts against the ropes and the screamin' mob to its feet with two terrible uppercuts. The Kid fell into a clinch and the fans hissed Ford for landin' a backhander on the break-away. Ford continued rushin', but Kid Roberts saved himself by clinchin' repeatedly, showin' that the old bean was workin.' They was in a fond embrace in mid-ring at the gong. Ford's round.

Ford continued to force the fightin' in the second, pilin' up points with his long, accurate left to the face and stiff right swings to the body. For a full minute in this round he hit the groggy Kid at will and the crowd razzed him for bein' unable to stop a apparently punch-drunk man. Kid Roberts woke up toward the end of the round and staggered Ford with a right to

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 the chin, but the effort used up all he had and he was takin' it plenty when the bell rung. Ford's round.

At the beginnin' of the third frame, Ford cut the Kid's eye with a right and the gore spattered both of 'em when Kid Roberts desperately clinched. The referee cautioned Ford for some unnecessary rough stuff and Ford held out a apparently apologetic glove to shake the Kid's hand. As Roberts reached out his own glove for it, Ford suddenly hooked his left viciously to the Kid's unprotected jaw, sendin' him to his knees.

The mob yelled murder and so did I, but before the hesitatin' referee could act, the Kid's up without waitin' for a count, tearin' into Ford with lunatical fury. Ford kept his head, though, and held the Kid off with jarrin' lefts to his damaged eye. That optic was soon closed tight, givin' a further advantage to Ford which already had all the advantage in the world! Kid Roberts took a steady beatin' for the remainder of the round and Ford went to his corner lookin' amazed that he couldn't finish him. The Kid's gameness has broke more than one fighter's heart! Ford's round.

Kid Roberts was out on his feet when he fell on his stool. Ptomaine asked him if he knew what round it was.

"Sure!" says the Kid. "It's the eleventh!"

The fourth round opened with a long clinch, both landin' punishin' blows in close. When the referee got 'em apart, Ford begin jabbin' the Kid's burn glim where he left off before and he didn't seem able to miss it! Kid Roberts, fightin' on his heart alone,

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 swung wildly and often, once fallin' full length to the canvas when he overreached himself in tryin' to land 'a haymaker. Ford was now makin' a choppin' block out of him! A right to the ribs made the Kid wince and Ford followed that with two smashes to the head that had Kid Roberts reelin' around the ring like a drunk and some of the crowd hollerin': "Stop it!" The Kid must of heard that, because he looked over Ford's shoulder at me and shook his head vigorously: "No!" He would of croaked me had I ever throwed in that towel for him whilst he was a boxer! Ford floored the Kid with a straight left just before the end of this round and Roberts was takin' a count when the bell rung. Ford's round.

Knockout Ford looked worried when he come out for the fifth. He'd hit Kid Roberts with all he had in stock, punched him from pillar to post and twice dropped him—yet there was the Kid still on his feet and tryin'! Not so good! The crowd was now with Kid Roberts almost to a man, as they always are with a gamester, win or lose! For the first time Ford begin missin' with his deadly straight left and seemed uncertain on his plan of battle, whilst the Kid was gettin' stronger every minute. He clipped Ford with a long overhand right to the head and sunk both gloves wristdeep to the wind as Ford tried to clinch. Ford begin back pedalin' and the crowd yelled for him to fight. The Kid shot a hard left and right to his face, the right openin' a deep gash in Ford's cheek and Mr. Ford covered up and waited. "Go on, lead, you big tramp!" howls the crowd at him, and a newspaper guy says

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 to me disgustedly: "I got fifty bucks on Ford, but I hope Kid Roberts murders the big yellow hound. If he had half the Kid's heart, we'd been home long ago!"

Spurred on by the jeers of the mob, Ford half-heartedly led with his left, but the Kid wasn't there. He feinted with his right and Kid Roberts smashed him on the mouth with a left and then down below with a right. Oh, that crowd—I can hear 'em yet! It was Ford which was now clinchin' for his life at every chance, and when he staggered to his corner at the end of the round his face was a red blur. The house never let up hollerin' durin' the rest and for the first time since the thing started, Kid Roberts is grinnin' at me and Ptomaine. Kid Roberts's round.

"Boys," he pants, "this fellow doesn't like it!"

"I'll give him four more rounds and 'at's all!" says Ptomaine gleefully, massagin' the Kid's heavin' stomach.

"I'll give him three!" says Jimmy de Long, workin' on the Kid's neck.

"I'll give him two!" I chimes in, with the ammonia under my boy's nose.

"And I'll give him one!" says the Kid, his one good eye glitterin'. A fightin' fool, what?

Both come up fairly fresh for the sixth. Ford tried his old reliable left again, but was short when the Kid rolled his head with the punch and Ford took a right cross to the jaw in return that staggered him. He got inside the Kid's next lead and clinched, wrestlin' Rob-

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 erts all over the ring, till the Kid shook him off and plastered him with rights and lefts to the jaw that put the attendance insane! Ford rallied and shot a left hook to the heart and the Kid laughed a bloody chuckle at him. Then they stood shoulder to shoulder and tossed terrific rights and lefts into each other's mid-section, till Ford give ground with a appealin' look at his corner. The Kid ducked a left and right and countered with two of the same that didn't do Ford a bit of good. A short clinch followed, broke up by the gong. Kid Roberts's round.

As it stood now, Ford had took four rounds to the Kid's two, but the Kid was gettin' fresher, whilst Ford seemed to of shot his bolt and was arm-weary and disheartened. His seconds worked frantically over him in his corner and his manager poured a stream of advice in his ringin' ears. Around the ring the odds shifted to 13 to 5 on Roberts and I thought of them sure-thing gamblers and laughed out loud.

The end arrived with startlin' suddenness. Both came out kind of weary for Round Seven. They danced cautionsly about each other till the crowd got loudly impatient and bawled for action. They certainly got service! Ford led a straight left. Kid Roberts ducked the blow and countered wickedly to Ford's head. Ford again tried his left, landin' heavily on the Kid's neck, but almost at the same instant the Kid shot a right to the chin. That punch licked Knockout Ford. It dazed him badly and before he could cover up, Kid Roberts whipped a torrid right uppercut to his jaw. Ford reeled for a split second and then

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186 sensible and affectionate nature would, he was sure, prove a great comfort to the new arrival. And now that all was ready, it seemed to him impossible to instal Tamakatsura in his household without revealing to Murasaki the whole truth about the girl’s identity and his own dealings with her mother. No sooner had he begun the story than he saw plainly enough that she was vexed with him for having made a mystery of the matter for so long. ‘I see that you are vexed,’ he said, ‘that I did not tell you about all this before. But you have always known quite well that I had many such attachments as this in the days before I knew you, and I have never seen that there was any point in mentioning them, unless some special circumstance made it necessary to do so. In the present case, it is essential that some one should be acquainted with all the facts, and I chose you rather than another merely because you are a thousand times dearer to me than any of the rest.’ Then he told her the whole story of his dealings with Yūgao. It was apparent to her that he was deeply moved, and at the same time that he took great pleasure in recalling every detail of their relationship. ‘Conversation turns often upon such matters,’ he said at last, ‘and I have heard innumerable stories of women’s blind devotion, even in cases where their love was in no degree reciprocated. Passion such as this is indeed rarely long withstood even by those who have gravely determined to rule out of their lives every species of romance; and I have seen many who have instantly succumbed. But such love as Yūgao’s, such utter self-forgetfulness, so complete a surrender of the whole being to one single and ever-present emotion—I have never seen or heard of, and were she alive she would certainly be occupying no less important a place in my palace than, for example, the Lady of Akashi is occupying to-day. … In many ways, of course, she fell short of perfection, as indeed

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 fell like a log to the canvas, where he was counted out without the flicker of a muscle!

Thus endeth the seventh lesson and only Fred Fleming and Bob Young stood between us and the heavyweight championship of the world!

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upon a time there was a dashin' young English playwright which rejoiced in the high-soundin' name of Sir Samuel Tuke; and among the many high-class girl and music shows which this master mind tore off before departin' for parts unknown, was a wow entitled "The Adventures of Five Hours." In the last act of this frolic, or else it wasn't, one of the characters turns to such of the audience as stuck the thing out, hauls off and cracks the followin' nifty:

That's a good thought. The best way to cope with a member of the female race is to act like you don't give a artichoke what they do. Then they usually do what you want 'em to do. Why? I ain't got the slightest of slight ideas. They can't even tell you themselves. As the noted Eve remarked when charged with makin' the Garden of Eden a lot of applesauce: "Girls will be girls!"

In thirty-four fiscal years of racin' around and tryin'

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 to find out what it's all about, I've met a couple or three milk-fed cuteys which stood out from the mob like a giraffe would stand out in a convention of worms. One of this type was Diana Pearson. I'll tell you about her and Kid Roberts.

After Kid Roberts made Knockout Ford kiss the canvas I practically instantly matched him with Fred Fleming, the other obstacle in the way of a fight with Bob Young, the champion, for fifteen rounds or less at the port of New York. So we shoved off for the little fishin' village in the land of Maine which I'd picked out for the Kid to train in for Fleming. Frederick was as tough as a life sentence, was nobody's fool as a boxer and a murderous hitter with either hand. I'd saw this baby go and I knew he was good!

As we started for dear old Maine our party was made up of myself, Kid Roberts, and Ptomaine Joe. I'd ordered Jimmy de Long, Midnight Johnson, One-Round Evans, and Joe Reed to report direct to the camp. Jimmy de Long was the greatest conditioner of box fighters which ever held smellin' salts under a broken nose, Midnight Johnson knew no equal as a robber, whilst Messrs. Evans and Reed was a couple of professional choppin' blocks which lived on cruel and unusual punishment. They'd do to limber Kid Roberts up till two or three weeks before he met Fleming. Then I'd have the best heavies which money could buy to extend the Kid to his limit. It's a hobby of mine never to do nothin' by halves, and when I say nothin' I mean nothin'!

A couple of friendly papers and the neutral news

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 reels took pictures of us at the station and quite a little gatherin' seen us off with cheers. The Kid's grim struggle back over the long, tough road to regain his title, and all which went with it, had made a million friends, not only in the sportin' world, but everywhere they love gameness. Plenty pretty girls called "Good luck!" to him as he smilin'ly pushed his big shoulders through the admirin' mob to the train. That boy was always a panic with the ladies. Inside the gate he bumps into one of 'em—a little, young blond disturbance with a figure which would annoy Venus. Ptomaine Joe stared at her with gapin' mouth.

"I beg your pardon!" says Kid Roberts to this breath-taker, hat in hand. "I'm awfully sorry I jostled you. I was looking at the car numbers and"

"And I—I was looking at you!" she interrupts shyly.

"C'mon, Kid, we'll miss the rattler!" I butt in, alarmed at her eye work.

As the choo-choo pulls out of the station, Miss Good Lookin's seat turns out to be right across from us. She's got a snappy young fellow with her which looks like a collar ad and is dressed the same as one to boot. They made a very optic-refreshin' pair—in fact, these kids looked a bit like each other. They whispered to each other for a minute, castin' quick side glances at us, to the amusement of the Kid. Then the young fellow squares his shoulders like he's suddenly made up his mind, steps over and coughs kind of nervously.

"Eh—excuse me, but aren't you Kid Reberts?" he wants to know.

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 All set to promote the girl, Ptomaine is off him because he thinks he's her heavy boy friend.

"No!" says Ptomaine, before the Kid can answer. "He ain't Kid Roberts, he's Norma Talmadge!"

The lad flushes and looks a trifle embarrassed, but the girl laughs.

"I love that!" she says, sarcastically viewin' Ptomaine like he's a Airedale cat or the like. "I suppose you're one of the Gish sisters, aren't you?"

"I'm both of 'em!" says Ptomaine with a typical goofy grin.

She smiles at that, but her boy friend is getting burnt up at the pushin' around we're given 'em. He glares at Ptomaine, and Kid Roberts closes his magazine, rises and bows.

"Yes, I am Kid Roberts," he says pleasantly. "May I introduce Joe Murphy, my manager, and Ptomaine Joe, my trainer?"

The boy's face relaxes and he shakes hands heartily with the Kid, lookin' as tickled as if he's mittin' Pres. Coolidge. He didn't do no gushin' over me and Ptomaine.

"I'm certainly delighted to meet you, Mister Roberts," he babbles. "And I hope you'll excuse my thrusting myself upon you in this way, but I've been an admirer of yours for—eh—oh, I'm Richard Pearson, and this is my sister."

"For cryin' out loud!" bawls Ptomaine, jumpin' up. "Why didn't you say before you was just a brother?"

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 "What an odd name—Ptomaine Joe!" says Diana, when she reaches in the handshakes.

"I'm a odd fellow!" whinnies this big clown and shows her a lodge button.

This thomasfoolery cracked the ice and in no time at all the bunch of us is chattin' away like little pals. Richard admitted bein' a freshman at Yale and his female relation says her name in even figures is Diana. She was all girl and not only a scientific talker, but she was class from hat to shoe, what I mean! They says they're goin' to join their old man in Boston and then spend their vacation somewheres in Maine. When Ptomaine heard they was bound for the same place we was, this mock turtle stole away to the wash room and puts a pair of military brushes through a drill on his hair. He likewise oiled his mane heavy, changed his collar and come back struttin' his stuff, hopin' to knock Diana dead. With Ptomaine's nerve and my ability, I'd have Astor looking like a public charge!

Well, this was one acquaintance which ripened with break-neck speed, no foolin'. Diana liked Kid Roberts and didn't care who knew it, whilst the Kid wasn't exactly seekin' police protection from her. They slipped out to the diner together whilst I was dozin' over the paper and Ptomaine was tryin' to build himself up with Diana's brother by matchin' half dollars with him and deliberately losin'.

After dinner young Richard, which seemed to have a bad attack of gamblin', says let's play cards to assassinate the dull hours of travelin'. That was K. O. with Diana and us, so we sent the dingo porter for a

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 table and cards. Richard calls him back. "Bring poker chips, too, Gus!" he says, with a elaborate attempt at bein' careless about it.

Diana looks a bit annoyed at friend brother, and I gazed at him thoughtfully. I had a faint idea that this was the tip-off on the whole event of us meetin' him and his pretty sister bein' simply a old-fashioned rib-up to take us down the line. But, then, both of 'em was such nice, clean-cut kids, what I mean, that it really didn't seem possible they could be wrong. When the porter comes back with the cards, Richard riffles 'em eagerly, but kind of clumsy. I was watchin' his shuffle with a eagle eye and I decided that the boy was either a very good actor or a very burn card player!

"Well, what will we play for?" asks Richard, lookin' around. "How about five-dollar limit?"

"Five-dollar limit is a rather stiff game to play—eh—just for pastime, don't you think, old man?" smiles Kid Roberts.

The boy looks disappointed, but shrugs his shoulders. "As you like," he says. "Shall we make it a dollar, then?"

This time Diana steps to the fore, shootin' us a glance which plainly says to let her do it.

"Dick," she says to her impatient brother, "why should we play for money at all? You know I detest gambling, and I don't think Mister Roberts and his friends are keen about it either. Let's just play for fun—euchre or hearts or—or—" She smiles at us, "How is your bridge?" she asks.

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 "Fine—but I didn't think nobody could notice it!" says Ptomaine, puttin' a hand to his mouth and draggin' out a plate with six teeth in it. At dentist done a good job at that, hey? Some people claims they can't stand a bridge in their mouth, but—"

Richard and his sister is roarin' with laughter, and I glared at this mug.

"Park them tusks back in your pan and be yourself, Stupid!" I says. "Your manners and a pig's is the same! Bridge is a game of cards and nobody but intelligent people can learn it."

"Then what will you do whilst we're playin' it?" asks Ptomaine.

To avoid the approachin' violence which he seen in my eye, the grinnin' Richard suggested dealin' each of us a card and whoever was high would name the game. Diana got a ace and selected some harmless pastime which five could play and which at this minute I don't even remember. That's simply a little detail and the big things which happened within the hour drove all little details out of my mind!

It was very plain that this betless card playin' thrilled Mr. Richard Pearson about as much as a shower bath would thrill Noah. You could see he was good and sore at his fair sister for stoppin' the poker tourney he had so fondly desired, but bein' a gentleman he said nothin' and made a praiseworthy pretence of gettin' interested in the kindergarten pastime we was engaged at. Already double cuckoo over Diana, Ptomaine made the game even less excitin' by deliberately misplayin' time and time again in order to help her

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 win, hopin' in that way to attract her favorable attention to himself. But the poor scissor bill got no service at all. On the contrary, he seemed to get the fair Diana's goat, and she told him sharply to play cards and not her! Fin'ly, after a particularly bone-headed miscue by Ptomaine, Richard throwed his hand down in disgust, claimed exemption, and left the car, sayin' he'd see us all of a sudden and mutterin' somethin' about lookin' for "a little action."

With a highly attractive embarrassed smile, the beautiful Diana apologized for her brother and seemed plenty worried at his walkin' out on us that way. When a hour slid by and no sign of the boy, Diana nervously dropped her cards. She was now genuinely alarmed about him, and, realizin' it, Kid Roberts says he'll take a stroll through the train and see if he can dig him up anywheres. I went with the Kid, leavin' Ptomaine with Diana for company and laughs—which tickled that love-sick banana silly!

In the club car we found a excited mob gathered about a poker game. We elbowed our ways to the first row of spectators, and, sure enough, there's young Pearson sittin' gloomily behind a small pile of chips. He lost practically all of 'em on a call just as we come up and he looked like he felt pretty low. The other players, cold-eyed, tight-lipped, and hard-faced, lacked only the green eyeshade and shirt sleeves to look like house dealers in some palace of chance, and that's what a couple of 'em was by trade. At least one of the others I was satisfied worked the big liners durin' the heavy tourist season. Diana's kid brother had

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 the same chance with them burglars as a one-legged guy would have to outrun a frightened deer, and from Richard's pale, desperate face they was givin' him a fearful trimmin' and makin' him love it!

When Richard got his next five cards he happened to look up and see us. He nodded and then glanced at his hand. Instantly he's afire with excitement. He beckons for us to come closer and when Kid Roberts bends down our young friend in a hoarse whisper puts the bee on him for a two-hundred-buck loan. I frowned, not bein' in favor of puttin' anything out to strangers, whether they had luscious sisters or not, and the Kid stalls by askin' Richard if he didn't think he ought to call it a day and quit playin'. Impatiently the boy says no and guardedly allows us to see his hand. It was the panther's pajamas—four aces!

Well, it certainly looked like our boy scout was equipped for a hog killin' and Kid Roberts slipped him the two hundred under the table. Tryin' to appear at ease but makin' a dismal failure of it, young Richard tossed the bills to the banker. Me and Kid Roberts gasps and looks at each other queerly when the banker calmly flips back just four white chips for Richard's two hundred fish. We're both convinced that this is considerable game of poker when white chips is priced at fifty smackers a copy!

Pearson managed to put over a stiff raise before the draw, but either guessin' or knowin '  the strength of his hand, the rest of these big-hearted gamblers done what the movies calls a fade-out when he waved the dealer

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 away and said he'd play the cards he already held, as is. The result was that Richard's four bullets was about as much use to him as a tuxedo would be to a life convict. With no players, he won only a few chips over the ante, but he acted as happy as puss with a ball of catnip. The others made a great show of congratulatin' him and tellin' him his luck had turned. No foolin', it was so raw it was pitiful!

At this minute Diana enters the club car, with Ptomaine trailin' after her. One glance and she spots Richard in the poker game and the next instant she's frantically beggin' Kid Roberts to get her brother out of it.

"He'll lose every penny he has with him and then sign I. O. U.'s for hundreds more—he always does!" she wails, clingin' to his arm. "Gambling is Dick's besetting sin, and he never wins! Father will be furious and blame me for allowing him to play. Oh, please stop him, Mister Roberts. He'll listen to you—he thinks you're wonderful and—and I'll know you are if you help me!"

The card sharks was castin' wicked glances at Diana and Kid Roberts, like they guessed what she was sayin', though he was too far away from them to actually hear her. That meant the strong possibility of a jam if Kid Roberts interfered, and a jam meant somebody was goin' to get smacked! All of which would undoubtlessly reach the shapely ears of the Kid's already angry wife, and with Diana's name mixed up in it—well, yout know how them things get twisted by the time they reach print. Prob'ly thinkin' of all this,

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 Kid Roberts hesitated and I shook my head vigorously and whispered "Lay off!" to him, over Diana's shoul'der.

He glanced from me to her bewitchin'ly appealin' face and just then a guy standin' near us remarks to his friend that he seen young Pearson lose twenty-five hundred bucks on a single hand and he thinks the cards is "readers." Among crooked gamblers, boys and girls, "readers" is playin' cards with little dots or other marks here and there in the scroll work on the backs of 'em. Sometimes these marks simply looks like errors in the engravin', and the average guy wouldn't notice 'em in a million years, or think anything about 'em if he did. But the educated player can look at the backs of a deck of "readers" and read the cards face down like he'd read his newspaper!

When it dawned on Kid Roberts that these yeggs was deliberately cleanin' Diana's brother, all thoughts of caution fled from his mind. With flashin' eye and grim face he started for the card table to bear down on the gamblers, but I frantically managed to get him to speak to the conductor before doin' anything himself. Mr. Conductor, which didn't seem exactly wild to butt in, told the Kid he couldn't bust up no sociable session of cards unless somebody was caught cheatin'. Get some positive evidence that the game's crooked, he says, and he'll make 'em quit.

Throwin' a highly disgusted look at the faint-hearted ticket puncher, Kid Roberts quickly pushes his way in beside the card players, calmly reaches over to the deck and picks up a handful of cards. Young Pear-

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 son looks at him in amazement and the others jump up with a chorus of choice oaths which drove Diana to the car vestibule, her face flamin' and her little fingers over her equally little ears.

"Pearson, you've been cheated—these cards are marked!" says Kid Roberts, after a quick examination of 'em.

"Get back in line, you big stiff!" snarls one of the gamblers, grabbin' for the deck. "The first thing you know you'll get a clout on the ear!"

Smilin' quietly at the idea of this big punk choosin' him, the Kid passed the deck over to Pearson, motionin' him to look at the backs of the cards. But after one long stare into the angry faces of the exposed crooks, the boy was satisfied. He leaped to his feet, a ragin' furnace, what I mean!

"Give me back my money, you robbers!" he yells.

"Aw, shut up, you cheap squawker!" sneers the dealer, and takes a punch at him. One of the others sprang at the Kid, and Ptomaine, which loves a freefor-all like a mother loves her first baby, shed his coat, licked his lips and with a howlin' "Let's go!" sailed in.

Kid Roberts socked the fellow which hit young Pearson, and that jazzbo went out like a match in a storm. Diana's gamblin' brother proved to be no cake eater himself and caught another one of these tomatoes on the nose with a lovely right swing. Richard's victim staggered back against Ptomaine and Ptomaine affectionately caressed him with a uppercut which nearly tore his head off. Diana had run for all

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 the conductors, brakemen, and porters on the rattler, but they was slow in arrivin'. In the meelee, I bumped into a husky, wild-eyed combatant, which was just settin' himself for another rush.

"Who's that big, good-lookin' bird which is slappin' 'em all silly?" pants this guy. "I think I'll just tie in there and smack him down for luck!"

"You'll have lots of luck, all right," I says. "But it'll be all bad. That's Kid Roberts!"

"Like Kelly is!" howls my viz-a-viz. "Creepin' mackerel, I don't wish no part of that boy! I better get out of traffic here—thanks for the tip!"

With that, he flops right down flat on the floor and lays there!

Well, no kiddin', the whole train's in a uproar when it pulls into some slab and the gamblers collect themselves from the floor, rush for the doors, and force the scared porter to open 'em before we come to a full stop. As they still got young Pearson's jack, Kid Roberts tears after 'em and me after him. Ptomaine couldn't come, as he was busy strugglin' with most of the burly train crew which was tryin' to quell this pogrom and had picked him as the goat.

Me and the Kid lost our prey in the crowd at the station, and though we searched waitin' room, ticket office, baggage room, and the streets high and low, there was no sign of 'em. When we run back breathlessly to the train I let out a beller which alarmed the depot help, whilst Kid Roberts, which would laugh away a broken leg, sits down on a trunk and chuckles his head off.

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 Mr. Train has went away from there, takin' with it our suit cases, tickets, Ptomaine, and whatnot!

As the next train of interest to us wasn't due till the followin' a. m., we sent a long night letter to Ptomaine, on the chance that he'd have brains enough to take care of our baggage and go on to our trainin' camp to wait for us. Turnin' in that night in the trap which passed for a hotel, I thought there was one consolation out of our missin' that choo-choo and that was that we'd saw the last of Miss Diana Pearson and her troublecausin' brother, Richard. She was a snappy number and he was nice people, but they both was poison to us!

How the so ever, Ptomaine dashed my fond hopes when he met us in the little fishin' village the next day. He had our baggage and likewise the two hundred young Pearson had borreyed from Kid Roberts on the train. Then he says Diana had begged him for the address of our camp, because she wanted to thank the Kid personally for his efforts in behalf of her brother. Ptomaine didn't have the heart to refuse her request.

"You big sapolio!" I hollered, fit to be tied. "Now she'll come here and gum everything! Ain't she caused us enough trouble already?"

"Oh, you mean 'at little hubbub on the train?" says Ptomaine. "Why, 'at wasn't no trouble to me! I kind of like a little fracas now and again—it's all fun and it keeps a man from gettin' rusty. Besides, it's a pleasure to get a punch in the nose for a girl like Diana Pearson!"

"Then you won't mind croakin '  for her!" I says

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 grimly. "Because if she shows up at this camp on account of you tellin' her where it is, you silly-lookin' dumb-bell, I'll just about cook you!"

Well, my worst fears was realized when Diana blew into the burg a few days later with her brother and father. Her and Richard lost no time hot-footin' to our camp and gushin' all over Kid Roberts for rescuin' the boy from the gamblers.

Diana tells us that she and her two relatives by marriage, viz., her father and brother, is goin' to spend a few weeks in our midst, and nothin' will do but Kid Roberts has got to meet dad. Although we found out that the old boy had four bucks for every egg in a shad roe, he didn't put on no dog with us. On the other hand, he cuddled right up to the Kid. The Kid begin breakin' up the dreary monotony of the trainin' grind by goin' fishin', swimmin', golfin', rowin', and playin' tennis with Diana and Richard, whilst they retaliated by havin' him to dinner at their place a couple of times a week. Me and Ptomaine took no part in this mad social whirl, for a good reason. Nobody asked us to.

I'm viewin' with the greatest of alarm the plain and growin' fondness of Diana for Kid Roberts, knowin' he just looked on her as a nice little girl and was still hopin' to win back his wife, when somethin' else happened which took my mind off the Pearsons. Mr. Toledo Eddie Hicks, the heavyweight champ's pilot, appears on the scene! This got me red-headed, and the first thing I wanted to do was run him out of the town, bein' satisfied he was there for no good reason.

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 I certainly had no idea of lettin' him see Kid Roberts work out and study the Kid's style, when we're goin' to fight his man if the Kid stops Fleming. But Kid Roberts didn't seem to care whether Eddie seen him do his stuff or not and the results was that this jobbie sits around watchin' the Kid train and tryin' to get rid of him was like tryin' to get rid of asthma. Well, this stuff got on my nerves, what I mean, and one day I nailed Edward when he's startin' into the gym.

"Outside!" I commands, barrin' the way. "I can't let you in here no more on account of the Kid's health. He's liable to catch somethin' from you!"

"You better make him shorten that right hook of his and time his straight left, or what he'll catch from Mister Fred Fleming will be pitiful!" sneers Toledo Eddie. "I come up here to look at a world beater and all I see is a good preliminary boy!"

"You got a coke peddler's nerve comin' up here at all!" I says. "Ain't you got no more brains than to visit this camp openly? If the sport writers ever gets wind of you bein' here, they'll swear we're fixin' to make the Kid Roberts-Bob Young fight one of them things!"

"Hold everything!" says Eddie. "That's a bout we'll take up later. What I'm interested in now is the Kid Roberts-Fred Fleming quarrel. Come on down to the beach where there's nobody around but dumb little fishes and the close-mouthed clams. I want to proposition you. Don't get rosy—let me speak my piece and you can take it or leave it. I got to make the noon

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 train out of here to-day and I'll accept a plain yes or no!"

His proposal was nothin' less than to have Kid Roberts "carry" red Fleming in their comin' scrap and take a draw decision. Eddie's world's champion, Bob Young, would then fight Fleming for a big purse before takin' on Kid Roberts, a thing he couldn't do if the Kid knocked Fleming for a mock orange. Both Young and his manager figured Fleming a pushover, and they was anxious to box him ahead of the Kid, which they knew would be tougher to stop. Toledo Eddie likewise points out to me that if Kid Roberts holds Fleming up in this mill it will give us another battle and another juicy purse with him, whether we knocked off the champion or not. If we're business men enough to do this paltry little favor for the champ, why, Eddie stands ready to present us with a certified check for $25,000 as a slight token of his esteem.

Well, I liked this double-crossin' second-story man the same way I liked sulphuric acid, not only because of the many obstacles he had continually put in the path of me gettin' the champ into a ring with Kid Roberts, but for other good and sufficient reasons. This looked like a lifetime chance to hand him the run around he justly deserved, so instead of tellin' him he was all wet I pretended to give the matter lots of due consideration. Fin'ly I told Eddie O. K. and slipped his check for twenty-five grand in my pocket. I had no intentions of cashin' it. Toledo Eddie then gayly blows back to New York to rehearse Fleming and oil his manager. I says nothin' what the so ever about the

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 transaction to Kid Roberts, which I fondly hoped and positively thought would knock Mons. Fleming as cold as a Eskimo's nose!

The date for the muss with Fleming was about ten days off, when all of a sudden Diana Pearson begin treatin' Kid Roberts with a coolness which was as noticeable as it was puzzlin'. Greatly surprised by her upstage actions, the Kid was at a loss for a explanation. The dinner invitations, swimmin' engagements, and tennis appointments was out, and as far as we was concerned Diana could of vanished from the village. I didn't know the cause of her Ritzin' us and I didn't care! I was too tickled that we was clear of female entanglements to bother about the reason.

I only wish I had, no foolin'!

Kid Roberts put Diana's strange actions down to the usual uncertain ways of the ladies, which has been known to go from one extreme to the other before. Besides, he had more serious things to think about, with one of the most important fights of his career only a few days off. On the mornin' of the day we was to break camp and go down to Gotham for the battle, who shows up but Diana. Her distant, cold manner is somewheres else—she's just one sweet, fascinatin' smile. She's dressed in some filmy somethin' which greatly assisted her many attractions and I immediately got thoughtful, because my experience has been that women is most dangerous when they're apparently goin' out of their charmin' way to be nice!

After fussin' around for a few minutes, Diana coyly asks Kid Roberts to go for a ride with her in her

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 father's fast motor boat, and to my great surprise she includes me in the invitation. Ptomaine was away gettin' our stuff packed and down to the station, or I guess she'd of asked him too. Anyways, I thanked Diana for her kindness to a pair of lonely and temporary grass he-widows, but I says we've got to pass the thing up. Our train leaves at noon, and if Kid Roberts should miss it, he'd likewise miss a heavy date he's got with Mr. Frederick Fleming at a smackin' party. Diana pouts and pleads. It will be our last day together, etc., etc., etc. If you'd ever seen this girl, why, you'd know what happened without me tellin' you! Glad that Diana had got over her peeve ard tickled to part with her in a friendly manner, Kid Roberts accepts her invitation and drags me along unwillin' and suspicious.

When we climbed aboard old man Pearson's swell speed scow, I warned Diana not to go too far, as a hour at most was all we had to spend on the briny. She simply tosses her head, flips the wheel, and we're off, putt-putt-puttin' in a shower of spray across the bluest water I ever seen in my life outside of a paintin'. If me and the Kid hadn't had the fight on our minds, we'd of highly enjoyed this thrillin' dash over the waves in the bracin', clear salt air. We had a beautiful mornin', a beautiful boat, and a beautiful ocean and a beautiful girl. Perfect!

Lulled half asleep by the steady hum of the highpowered motor, I'm thinkin' these pleasant thoughts when—clunk! Mr. Boat stops dead!

With a little nervous laugh, Diana says it's nothin'

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 at all and she'll fix it in a jiffy. But she didn't fix it in no jiffy, and when twenty minutes has slipped by, me and Kid Roberts took a hand. What I know about motor boats could be wrote in capital letters on the head of a pin, and what the Kid knows would fit there likewise and still leave plenty room! We tugged at the fly wheel, but she wouldn't turn over, we tinkered and messed with pliers and screwdrivers and switches and whatnot, but all we got was full of grease. There's no way of stoppin' time from flyin' on the water any more than there is on dry land, and when we're still driftin' idly away from the shore at the end of a hour I'm so mad I ain't fit to be at large, and even Kid Roberts is worried. The beach is just a dim outline in the distance, the motor will not move and we got a ten-thousand-dollar appearance forfeit up with the promoter of the Fleming meelee in New York. What I was thinkin' about Diana right there would never make her stuck on herself, no kiddin'!

Boilin' over as I was, I couldn't keep still, and before I could stop 'em a couple of cusses slipped out. They was at least clean ones, but nevers the less I begged Diana's pardon when the Kid whirled on me angrily.

"Oh, don't bother to apologize," says Diana scornfully. "I'm not surprised at anything either of you do! I happened to overhear your agreement with the champion's manager to make the bout with this Fleming crooked. You see, I was behind the rock that day!" She turns to the astonished Kid Roberts,

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 whilst I'm still gaspin', "And you were my ideal!" she tells him, reproachfully.

"I haven't the slightest idea what you are talking about, Miss Pearson," says the Kid in amazement. He gives my flustered face a stern look. "What does this mean, Joe?" he asks harshly.

Well, I'm caught with the goods! There's no out for me, so I told the gradually burnin' up Kid Roberts all about the talk I had with Toledo Eddie Hicks that fatal day on the beach. I tried to show the Kid where I was right, but he sharply cut me off with a cold request for the $25,000 check I got from Eddie. I meekly handed over the scrap of paper and the Kid viciously tore it to shreds before Diana's wonderin' eyes. Then he proceeded to give me as two-handed a bawlin' out as I've had in my life and I'm a A-1 judge of bawlin' outs, bein' a married man. With that all settled, Kid Roberts, still flamin', tells Diana his fight with Fleming will be on the level, the same as all his battles is and if she don't believe him now, maybe she will when he knocks Fleming stiff!

"Oh, Mister Roberts, you can't whip Fleming now—you—you must not defeat him!" cries Diana.

"Must not!" frowns the Kid, bewilderedly. Things is all comin' too fast for him.

"Must not!" repeats Diana. "After overhearing that conversation between Mister Murphy and that horrible Toledo Eddie, I told my brother you had arranged to have the bout result in a draw and—and Richard has bet seven thousand dollars that way! Wait—that isn't all. He took the money from

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 father's safe, and when father misses it—oh, it will be terrible! Father has a fearful temper—you do not know him—he may even send Richard to jail! But if you don't whip Fleming, Richard will win his bet and he can replace the money without any one ever being the wiser. Oh, please, Mister Roberts—I—I—"

Diana breaks off in a fit of sobbin', and Kid Roberts gives me a look which made my hair stand up! Then he stares at the weepin' Diana and from her to the shore, which is gettin' further and further away. That last look woke him up with a start! He tells Diana he's very much upset over the situation—a thing for which he's in no way to blame—but her brother should of come to him for his O. K. before bettin' his old man's sugar on her unsupported story of a framed fight. Richard rates little sympathy and Kid Roberts can do nothin' now. The Kid positively ain't goin' to turn crooked and fake it with Fleming to save her brother or anybody's brother. He wouldn't even do it for his own brother!

Diana suddenly jumps up, and with blazin' eyes tells Kid Roberts that if he won't save Richard, then there'll be no fight. The real reason the motor boat won't perform is because we're out of gas, and as there's no fillin' stations on the ocean let him try and get ashore!

A nice girl, what?

Starin' his watch out of countenance, Kid Roberts grinds his teeth, and, I bet, wishes Diana was a great big husky man for about three minutes instead of a naughty little girl. She sits back coolly in the rich cushions of the boat and smiles defiantly at him, seem-

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 in'ly enjoyin' his inward convulsions of rage. The Kid measures the distance to the beach with a speculative eye. With a snap, his watch closes and goes in his sweater pocket. The sweater comes flyin' off over his head and lands in my face. He bends down, swiftly sheds his shoes and socks, runs to the bow of the boat, and before either me or Diana can rise he's overboard in a graceful dive which barely made a splash!

Well, it was a good three miles against a brisk wind in a choppy sea to the shore, and Kid Roberts was not clothed for no endurance swim. He hadn't gone half the distance when Diana, watchin' him through marine glasses, lets forth a little cry, and I snatched the glasses from her tremblin' hands. Peerin' through 'em, it was a minute or more before I could locate the Kid's bobbin' head in the high-runnin', whitecapped waves, and when I did I yelled murder. Kid Roberts, either seized with cramps or exhausted from the tough goin', was fightin' for his life!

Sick with fear and horror, I turned on Diana, and what I told that young woman I bet she'll often recall without pleasure. She wilted under my tongue lashin', but quickly recovered and dashed into the cabin of the boat. When she come out she's draggin' along a container of gasoline. Whilst I frantically poured it in the tank, wonderin' why my temper didn't explode it, she tearfully explained that she'd disabled the boat purposely to keep Kid Roberts from showin' up at the fight in case he decided to disregard my agreement with Toledo Eddie Hicks, which is just what he done. She'd found it hard to believe that Kid

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 Roberts was crooked, but she was leavin' nothin' to chance. I merely snapped at her that if the Kid drowned before we got to him, I'd toss her overboard after him as sure as she was a foot high!

Kid Roberts was all in when we reached him, and I pulled him out, assisted by Diana, which was scared stiff till we got him aboard. Then she perked up, told the gaspin' Kid she saved his life and the least he could do in return was to save her brother's money. If I had her nerve, I'd start across the Sara Desert with a line of gondolas and talk all the sheiks into tradin' their camels for 'em!

Soakin' wet, chilled to the bone, and sore at all of us, Kid Roberts simply glared at Diana and refused to answer her one way or the other. In silence we sped to the shore, hopped from the boat and a frightened Diana, and dashed to the railroad station, where the frantic Ptomaine Joe bundled us into our compartment.

The less said about that trip to New York the better!

Kid Roberts was still enraged at one and all when he climbed through the ropes before a howlin' mob of fight-mad fans to tangle with Fred Fleming, and cheers which rocked the clubhouse only wrung a curl of the lip from him. Talk about rarin' to go—the Kid shot from his corner at the first bell like a wounded tiger and chased the amazed and indignant Fleming all over the ring! Fleming thought it was all fixed to go the full distance to a draw, and he just couldn't understand the Kid's bein' so rough and boisterous at the start. He clinched and cautioned Kid Roberts, re-

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 questin' a little less speed, and the Kid snarled for him to stop talkin' and fight, because this fracas was goin' to be level. "You dirty double-crosser!" hisses Fleming and butts the Kid viciously with his head.

"I'm no double-crosser; I didn't agree to anything!" answers Kid Roberts and slammed Fleming with a fearful right uppercut. After that conversation kind of lagged.

Kid Roberts hit Fleming with everything but the timekeeper's watch in that first frame and twice dropped him for short counts, but the Kid was too mad to measure his man and finish him with a punch to a vital spot. His timin' was away off and his judgment was back in the dressin' room. That's all saved Mr. Frederick Fleming from a trip to dreamland in the first two minutes, and at that Freddie took one terrible pastin'! He was on Queer Street from the first minute on and didn't land a clean punch durin' the entire round on the human batterin' ram which danced around him. Gorged with thrills, the crowd had to find room for another one at the bell. With the sound of the gong, Kid Roberts dropped his busy gloves. Sock! Quick as a flash, Fleming shot a left to the wind, and the Kid sprawled flat on his back! A instant of stunned silence, then the house was in a wild uproar. I jumped into the ring and screamin'ly claimed the fight on a foul, whilst Ptomaine and the other handlers dragged the limp Kid Roberts to his corner. Fleming and his seconds protested that he didn't hear the bell—old stuff!—whilst half the mob bawled for the scrap to go on and the other half shrieked "Roberts

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 wins!" The referee hesitated, and whilst he's hesitatin', the timekeeper bangs the old cowbell for the second round.

"Get out of the ring, Joe!" pants Kid Roberts, pushin' past me. "This is one I don't want to win on a foul. I want to stop this fellow, and I've got enough left to do it—let's go!"

And they went. Not havin' fully recovered from the effects of that foul blow at the end of the first round, Kid Roberts was lucky to last out the second. He done it by continual clinchin', coverin' up, doggin' it, and kiddin' the suspicious Fleming out of rushin' him with a flurry of punches which might of ended it. Fleming had the greatest respect in the world for the Kid's right, and he was afraid Roberts was only pretendin' to be hurt to fool him into leavin' a openin'.

The result was a slow round which had the crowd whistlin' and stampin' their feet. Both men got the royal razzberry from the indignant throng when they trotted to their corners at the gong.

Kid Roberts took the third round by a good margin, usin' a straight left and a short right uppercut in close, under my instructions. His timin' had vastly improved and he cut Fleming's eye in this innin', makin' Fred look like a chump with a wicked jab which never stopped peckin' at the sore glim. When the Kid come to his corner, he complained that Fleming was so heavily greased with some oily substance that it was impossible to do anything with him in a clinch. I called the referee's attention to it, and, that guy, anx-

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Rh is bound to be the case. She was not of great intelligence, nor was her beauty flawless. But she was a singularly lovable creature….’ ‘Were she as much in your good graces as the Lady of Akashi, she would have nothing to complain of…’ broke in Murasaki suddenly; for the Akashi episode still rankled sore. The little princess, who constantly visited Murasaki’s rooms, was playing with her toys not far away, and Murasaki seeing her look so innocent and pretty, in her childlessness forgave Genji the infidelity which had brought to her so charming a little playmate and companion.

These things happened in the ninth month; but Tamakatsura’s actual arrival could not take place for some while afterwards, for though her quarters had been chosen she still lacked attendants. The first thing was to find her some pretty pages and serving-girls. Even in Tsukushi the old nurse had managed to procure some very passable children to wait upon her; for it sometimes happened that some one from the City, having fallen upon evil days, would get stranded on the Island and be glad to place his boy or girl in a respectable home. But in the sudden flight from Tsukushi all these young people had been left behind. Orders were given to market-women and trades-people to keep their eyes open and report upon any suitable children whom they came across; and in this way, as could scarcely fail to happen in so vast a town, a fine batch of attendants was quickly brought together. Nothing was said to them about Tamakatsura’s rank, and they were mustered in Ukon’s own house, whither Tamakatsura herself now repaired, that her wardrobe might be finally inspected, her staff fitted out with proper costumes and instructed in their duties. The move to Genji’s Palace took place in the tenth month. He had already visited the Lady from the

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 ious to please after ignorin' Fleming's glarin' foul in the first, talked turkey to the boys in Fleming's corner during the rest.

Fleming come out full of ambition for round four and it was a pretty even session, both takin' plenty punishment to the jovial crowd's delight. After a clinch, the Kid again protested to the referee about the goo on Fleming's body and the official stops the fight, gets a towel from one of Ford's angry handlers and wipes off Fleming's glistenin' body. Some of the mob liked that and some of 'em didn't.

The fifth and sixth rounds was likewise even up and not to the crowd's likin's, bein' a bit slow. Kid Roberts kept dancin' around, cuttin' Fleming to pieces with straight lefts and right hooks, whilst Fleming, givin' up the idea of boxin '  with the Kid, would let go a murderous swing every now and then with all his hopes pinned to it. When the Kid didn't block or duck these wild blows they did plenty damage and the blood spattered on his silk trunks wasn't all Fleming's by a long shot!

At the beginnin' of the seventh round Kid Roberts feinted Fleming into a openin' with his left and then shot across his right for a clean knockdown. Fleming took "eight," the crowd countin' aloud with the referee, and when Fred got up, Roberts stumbled as he rushed in eagerly to finish him. The slip threw the Kid off balance and Fleming swung a desperate right which caught Roberts in the pit of the stomach with a plunk which could be heard in China! Fleming's admirers screamed themselves blue in the

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 face as the Kid sank to the floor. It didn't seem like nobody could get up after a sock like that one, but the Kid's ability to take it is only one of the things which twice made him a world's champion! He got to his feet at "nine" and throwed me a comfortin' look before divin' into a clinch, where he held on till his wounded tummy behaved. Roberts finished the round in good shape, but he took no further chances with Fleming's right swing to the body.

That frame presented Fleming's friends with their last chance to cheer. In the eighth, ninth, and tenth Kid Roberts simply give Fleming a boxin' lesson and punched him from pillar to post. Tired and puffin' from missin' haymakers and the steady beatin' the Kid was handin' him, Fleming was a sorry sight as he slumped on his stool at the end of the tenth round. It must of been plain to his wildest admirer that Frederick was through!

I sent Kid Roberts out to finish Fleming in the eleventh, and the Kid folleyed orders to the letter. He sprayed Fleming with hooks and jabs whilst Fred was vainly tryin' to find him with a right swing. Suddenly Kid Roberts stopped his pretty boxin' exhibition and tore in with a terrific right and left to the body. Fleming missed a straight left ordered by his corner, but got home with a right to the face. Kid Roberts was short with a right uppercut and took a hard left hook to the head in return. That punch stung him and he shot back a right to the jaw which forced the tough Fleming to clinch. Fleming hit Roberts low on the break and the crowd hissed, then cheered wildly

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 as the Kid sent Fleming to his haunches with a overhand right to the mouth.

Fleming was in distress when he arose without waitin' for a count, and, always a great finisher, Kid Roberts took his time, ducked a couple of swings to the head and set himself. Fleming poked him twice with his left and then started a right. Kid Roberts let fly his own right at the same instant and was a flash quicker in landin' on Fleming's jaw. It was a beautiful punch! "A-a-a-ah!" yells the crowd, jumpin' on the seats. Fleming swayed for a instant, dropped like a felled tree—and it was all over!

The very first person to rush into the dressin' room and hysterically shake the Kid's hand was Mr. Richard Pearson. Richard is crazy with excitement and so thrilled by bein' in the presence of the mighty Kid Roberts that he's speechless, though his sparklin' eyes is talkin' plenty! The Kid frowns angrily at him at first and then relents, seein' the worship in the boy's eyes. After lecturin' him severely for takin' his father's seven thousand bucks and losin' it, Kid Roberts says he'll loan Richard the money to make it good if he gives him his word he'll quit gamblin' forever.

The boy gives him a blank look.

"Why—why I haven't lost anything!" he says.

It's the Kid's turn to be astounded.

"But Diana—your sister said she told you the fight was arranged to result in a draw and that you had bet that way!" he tells him.

Young Pearson looks puzzled for a instant and then he busts out laughin'.

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 "That's rich!" he says. "I remember now, Di did tell me something about overhearing a conversation between Mister Murphy and the heavyweight champion's manager, but then girls get everything wrong! I merely told her I was going to bet on the fight, and I suppose she took it for granted that I'd place my wager according to her report of a frame-up. How ridiculous! I—why, I knew you couldn't be crooked, Mister Roberts, so I bet on you to win by a knockout and I won almost fifteen thousand dollars!"

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