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 laid on the bottom of it side by side on the ways in. Daniels opened his eyes and looked at the Kid, but not a word passed between 'em till we beached the boat and helped 'em out. One of Daniels's friends gives him a stiff drink of whiskey out of a silver flask, but Kid Roberts refuses the same, though I told him to go ahead and take it. We all gather 'round 'em, lookin' for handclasps, slaps on the shoulders, each tellin' the other what a great fighter he is. Nothin' of the kind! Daniels flexes his mighty arms and sneers at the fellow which has just rescued him from feedin' the fishes. Kid Roberts, the life saver, scowls back.

"A wave swept me off my feet—not you!" says Daniels. "Do you wish to continue?"

"With pleasure!" snarls the Kid.

Before any one half dreams they mean it, both land sizzlin' rights to the head and the amazed crowd scatters. Daniels put a left hook to the jaw and as he rushed to follow it up, the Kid shot a hard right to the heart and then brought the same glove up under the chin. Daniels fell to his knees, tried to get up, slipped back and lay flat on his stomach. Kid Roberts steps dizzily away.

"Ask him if he's had enough now!" he pants to Ptomaine.

Ptomaine kneels down and turns Daniels over like a sack of meal.

"He's stiff, Kid!" he says, "He"

But Kid Roberts has slumped down in the sand a yard from Daniels, dead to the world!

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, if you ever go to dear old Mexico keep away from the famous hacienda of Pancho Nogales on the hoopskirts of Tia Juana. It's a swell-lookin' trap, inside and out, full of everything the most exactin' might ask for, what I mean. Likewise, Pancho will be tickled to see you and you'll get treated the same as a king. In spite of all that, keep away from the joint or you'll run into nothin' but grief!

It was whilst Kid Roberts was trainin' to fight Bob Young at Tia Juana that we had the bad luck to run across Mr. Pancho Nogales, and what that mackerel done to us was plenty! Kid Roberts had been matched to fight Young at Syracuse, but I wouldn't let him go against no killer like Young till the wound he got from bein' butted by that Daniels tamale had thoroughly healed. In the meanwhile Mr. Young hauls off and cops the heavyweight title by knockin' Jim Oliver for a loop. With the aid of the newspapers we called Young's attention to his postponed quarrel with us, and after the usual weeks of bickerin' over this and that he agreed to box us twenty-five rounds or less for the good of the sport and $150,000.

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 The articles called for both men to finish their trainin' on the battle ground and we got our outfit set up in the suburbs of Tia Juana with Ptomaine Joe in charge of the handlers. Bob Young is workin' out at the other end of the slab. Both camps is drawin' big crowds daily and a couple of weeks before the fight Young was only a 6 to 5 favorite over Kid Roberts, in spite of the fact that Bob was champion.

The gils which was promotin' the big fracas had been havin' plenty trouble with the Mexican authorities. I suppose they neglected to sugar the right people or somethin'—anyways, a few days before the mill was due to take place somebody pitched a monkey wrench into the machinery and official sanction was absolutely refused. It looked like everything was goin' to be a terrible bust, but the frantic promoters still had hopes of comin' to terms with the authorities and insisted on the fighters continuin' trainin', as advertised.

Kid Roberts is out doin' road work early one mornin' with me and Ptomaine Joe, when all of a sudden a woman's shriek spears the hot, dusty air it come from the woods which fringed the side of the road and it was just packed with "S. O. S." The three of us stopped dead, looked at each other in amazement, and then tore into the woods, with Kid Roberts in the lead. The scene which met our eyes was so exceedin'ly movie that the first thing I done was to look around for a camera. The first thing Kid Roberts done was to snatch up a big piece of rock and let fly at a ugly-lookin' snake which was menacin' one of the prettiest members of the indispensable sex that ever

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 distended a male eye. She was somethin' to think about, and don't think she wasn't, and her bein' scared stiff didn't make her no homelier either. Ptomaine Joe just stood there and stared with his lower jaw restin' on his oversize chest and his eyes a couple of admirin' saucers.

Well, a crack with a stick on Mr. Snake's head ruined him, so that was all settled and we turned our attention to the girl. She was the picture of gratitude and thanked the handsome, smilin' Kid so prettily that both me and Ptomaine wished a couple of more snakes would come along so's we could do our stuff too. Then the Kid introduced us to the charmin' maiden and that led up to the important discovery that she was entitled Maida Vane. Now that we had rescued the damsel in distress like first-class heroes, I was anxious to shove off and drag Kid Roberts away from the influence of her hypnotizin' smile, but the Kid was in no more hurry to get under way than a drugged snail.

When Maida coyly remarked that she lived near by, Kid Roberts said it would be a good thought for us to escort her to her domicile in case the dead snake's friends should come lookin' for revenge. Maida flung the Kid a languishin' glance and O. K.'d his suggestion, with the results that the four of us started through the woods—Maida and Kid Roberts leadin' the way. It was a cinch that our girl friend thought the good-lookin', college-bred Kid was the bat's waistcoat and also that the romantic way they met had just about goaled her.

Well, to dwarf a tall story, we fin'ly arrived at a

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 clearin' in the woods, and lo and behold! there stands a great big swell-lookin' hacienda, surrounded by high walls and patrolled by a pair of sentries, ragged and armed. Honest to Kansas, these babies was the two toughest-lookin' gorillas I have ever had the pleasure to witness in my life. Ptomaine Joe got pale and let out a gasp.

"For cryin' out loud!" he says. "Look at them mugs! I'd hate to have the pair of 'em choose me!"

Just then one of these murderous-lookin' jazzboes heard him, I guess, because he swung around sharply and aimed his gun at us. But when he seen Maida he brought the gun back to his shoulder, saluted, and kept on walkin' his beat without another glance at us. Three deep sighs of relief come from three manly bosoms.

"Well," says Kid Roberts with a grin, "this is indeed an eventful day in an adventurous country. Who lives in that—er—garrison, Miss Vane? I presume you know, since the sentry recognized you."

"That is the residence of Pancho Nogales," says Maida, returnin' his smile.

"Who's he?" asks Ptomaine, wipin' his forehead nervously. "Where does he rate a joint like that?"

"The Government furnished it," says Maida with another choice smile. "Is it possible you never heard of Pancho Nogales, the once famous bandit and revolutionist?"

"I am somewhat conversant with the career of Pancho Nogales," speaks up Kid Roberts, prob'ly so's she wouldn't think we was all a total loss. "And I must confess to a sneaking admiration for the old fellow's

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 spectacular exploits. So the government now supports him?"

"Yes," says Maida. "Some years ago the harried authorities made a bargain with the old rascal which included a grant of land and practically every luxury, in return for his laying down arms and disbanding his followers. This beautiful hacienda was part of the transaction."

"I see," says Kid Roberts politely. Then he looks sideways at Maida. "And you?" he asks.

Maida hesitates, but only for a instant. "Pancho's—eh—health has been failing of late," she answers. "I am employed here as a nurse."

"The lucky stiff!" busts out Ptomaine. "If I was him, I never would get well!"

Maida thanked him with a blush.

"Do you know, I'd be awfully glad to meet Nogales," says the Kid. "Do you think—"

"I'm sure Pancho would be more than delighted to meet the famous Kid Roberts," butts in Maida quickly. "Come, I shall arrange it at once!"

That was the most unfortunate invitation we ever accepted in our lives!

Well, we got by the sentries, which give everybody but Maida hungry looks and fingered their rifles regretfully when we filed into the patio. Then we had to pass inspection before a couple of highly suspicious secretaries, Maida doin' all the explainin', before we're fin'ly ushered into the presence of Pancho Negales himself.

The bozo which was to play such a important and

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 devilish part in our lives durin' the next few days was a short, stocky, dark-complexioned old gent with a grizzled beard and a fierce eye. He distributed a ferocious frown amongst the three of us till Maida introduced Kid Roberts and then it was different! Pancho grinned and shook the Kid's hand heartily, clapped his own hands and a couple of dirty little guys run in, all but buryin' their heads in the ground before Pancho. Some sharp commands in Mexican and they scurried away. He kicked each of 'em soundly as they was leavin' and I had to nearly kick Ptomaine Joe's ankle off to stop him from laughin'. Pretty soon the little guys come runnin' back with a jug and glasses.

Kid Roberts politely explained to Pancho that he couldn't touch nothin' more aggressive than water, as he was trainin' for a championship battle in a prize ring and only street fightin' can be well done on booze. I says that went for me too, as I was the Kid's pilot and had to be right or I might send him in there with a knife in his belt and we'd lose on a foul. Pancho looked hurt, but Ptomaine Joe quickly salved his feelin's. He drained his glass at a gulp, made a horrible face, choked, and then smiled from ear to ear. His ear to mine, for instance. Then he reached over and drank my drink and the Kid's. Pancho studied him thoughtfully for a minute and suddenly knocked all the glasses off the table to the floor, at the same time pushin' the jug over to Ptomaine with a invitin' wave of his hand.

"Thanks, Pankie!" says Ptomaine, grabbin' the jug

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 with a leer. "This is the real McCoy, and I'm feelin' pretty low. Here's a go!"

Well, durin' the next couple of hours I thought Pancho Nogales about the most interestin' old guy I ever met in my life, I did for a fact. He spoke as good English as you or me, prob'ly better than me, told a mean story, and thoroughly enjoyed one. We was all surprised by the line he had on big sportin' events, till he explained that he had lived a great many years in the United States as a special agent of his government, before he got sick and tired of the wages and throwed a revolution. He'd seen a flock of championship box fights and was a sixty-fourth degree fan. He'd fully intended to have a ringside seat at the comin' fight between Kid Roberts and Bob Young if the local officials hadn't stepped in and gummed things up.

All durin' our talk, various ragged, dirty, and tough-lookin' cholos passed in and out, respectfully salutin' Pancho and givin' us nasty looks. After a while these babies got on my nerves, and I made bold to ask Pancho who they was. Pancho smiles and says they're just a few of his faithful right-hand men which the Government has allowed to serve him in his old age. He called some of 'em over and introduced 'em, tellin' us blood-curdlin' stories about the choice crimes they had committed whilst in his service, and we learned about villains from him!

Pretty soon Pancho got up and says he'll show over the hacienda. I been in some swell dumps in my time and read about others, but I never seen or heard of nothin' to equal the class, wealth, or magnificence

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 of the hacienda of Pancho Nogales! Hot bouillon! That was some bungalow, I'll tell the squint-eyed world! Rare paintin's, tapestries, books, statues, rugs, furniture, antiques or what have you, filled every nook and corner. All me and Ptomaine could do was stand pop-eyed, but Kid Roberts, which knows all about that kind of stuff, praised Pancho for his taste in this and his judgment in that till Pancho was all swelled up like a boil. The last thing we seen was a vault with all the bars in the world across the doors. Pancho made much to do about this, leadin' us there with great caution, and Ptomaine's face brightened. The big fellow smacked his lips, thinkin' he was prob'ly on the brinks of shakin' hands with some first-class champagne or the like. But Pancho dashed his fond hopes by explainin' that the vault contained a fortune in gold which the Government had allowed him to keep as part of the bargain which retired him from the pleasin' and profitable occupation of banditry. Pancho said we'd hear more about that gold later. We did— Leapin' Tuna, I'll say we did!

About this time Maida joined us and we sit down to a wow of a lunch, featured by the repeated regrets of Pancho that the authorities had stopped the championship fight between Kid Roberts and Bob Young, which he'd looked forward to seein' for months. No kiddin', from the way he moaned over it you'd think he was one of the promoters!

But it was after we had pushed back our chairs from the table that Pancho played his ace. Over some wonderful coffee and marvelous cigars, Maida and Kid

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 Roberts the only ones not partakin' thereof, Pancho begged us to stay a few days at the hacienda. He's a old man, he says, practically shut off from the world and a educated guy like Kid Roberts comin' down there has been a godsend to him. He wants to talk about books, plays, the European situation, etc., and so forth, all stuff of which, I must say, he had a amazin' knowledge. He promised to send into town and have professional entertainers brought down to amuse us. He swore he'd speak to the right people in Tia Juana, people which was obligated to him for past favors, and the championship fight would be allowed to go on. In fact, he offered us everything but the Pacific Ocean and only stopped when his breath failed him.

Ptomaine Joe takes a long, lingerin' look at Maida, who's Alice-blue eyes is fastened pleadin'ly on Kid Roberts.

"Pankie," says Ptomaine, "what my boy friends is goin' to do I don't know, but what I'm goin' to do is park here till Niagara Falls runs backward!"

Pancho beams on this master mind and turns to a servant. "José," he bawls, "one jug for the señor, pronto!"

"Cheese!" says Ptomaine in a awed voice. "He's a mind reader too!"

"You will stay, then, señors?" asks Pancho eagerly.

Kid Roberts looked a question at me, and I shook my head "No!" I liked old Pancho Nogales, but a few days of my boxer stallin' around with the beauteous Maida, the temptation of them rare wines and cigars, the promised festivities and the prospects of Ptomaine

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 bein' incessantly pie-eyed on our hands, failed to hit me as the proper caper for a guy tryin' to battle his way up to the heavyweight championship, as the Kid was.

"Thanks very much, Mister Nogales," I says. "But I'm afraid we'll all have to check out. If Kid Roberts ain't back at his trainin' camp by to-night, there'll be a fearful squawk from the promoters and"

"Oh, bother the old promoters!" butts in Maida, with a tantalizin' smile at the waverin' Kid. "Please stay, Mister Roberts, won't you? I assure you you're being signally honored. General Nogales rarely pleads with a guest to stay—I never have before!"

With that Cutey for your lawyer you'd get off with a reprimand for blowin' up the White House!

The Kid turns to me. "Frankly, Joe," he says, "the general's invitation appeals to me. The bout with Bob Young has been practically postponed, and we may as well stay in these delightful surroundings a few days before returning to the United States. It will afford us all a much-needed rest, and I feel it would be extremely discourteous to refuse the general's hospitality."

With that, before I can say a word, he bows to Pancho and Maida. "We accept your invitation with pleasure," he says.

"Hot coffee!" bawls Ptomaine, half-ways through his jug, at's what I call usin' your head for more than a barber's playground!"

"Gracia, señors, I am delighted!" says Pancho, slappin' his hands together and smilin' strangely.

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 "I knew you'd stay," murmurs Maida to Kid Roberts, risin' from the table. "Come, let me show you our sunken gardens."

Kid Roberts squandered most of the day in the pleasant company of the fair Maida, whilst me and Ptomaine stuck around with Pancho at Pancho's urgent request. His system for makin' friends was costly, but perfect. For example, I remarked on a kind of odd and no doubt valuable ring Pancho was wearin', and he immediately gives it to me for a keepsake. Ptomaine raves over a bay mare in the stables, and, with a lordly wave of his hand, Pancho makes said bay mare the property of the open-mouthed Ptomaine. A bronze statuette caught the eye of Kid Roberts, and Pancho forces it on the astonished Kid as a remembrance of his visit. Pancho was some host, what?

We file into the big, oak-roofed dinin' room about seven p. m. To our large amazement six guys we haven't saw before is already seated at the table. These babies is no cholos—every one of 'em is dignified, well-dressed, and looks like he knew what it was all about and why. Class stuck out all over 'em. Pancho introduces us to them with great ceremony. But—he don't introduce them to us! Kid Roberts is no little embarrassed and plenty surprised when Pancho makes not the slightest mention of the gents' names, but the six newcomers seemed to take the kind of odd introduction as a matter of course.

All through the dinner the strange sextette never took their eyes off Pancho, watchin' his every move,

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 but they paid absolutely no attention to us. One of the strangers was French, two was German, one a Englishman, one either Spanish or italian, and the last a American. They talked strictly amongst themselves in low voices and mostly in foreign tongues. Maida appeared to have a healthy respect for them all. It was just the opposite with Pancho. Our aged and excentric boy friend took no pains to hide the fact that he liked them the same way he liked sulphuric acid, and every now and then he'd look up over his plate to sneer at them, all of which mystified me and the Kid, but didn't bother Ptomaine. That mock-turtle was busy eatin'!

After dinner come another surprise in the shape of a swell entertainment in the patio, showin' that Pancho had kept his word about sendin' into Tia Juana for performers. Dancin' followed hard on the heels of the show. Kid Roberts was whirlin' about with Maida when Pancho suddenly appeared on the scene, whispered to 'em, and they stopped dancin' at once. The Kid frowned, but excused himself and started away with Pancho, signalin' me to follow him. Maida throwed Ptomaine a mischievously invitin' look, and this big stiff bounded over and finished the Kid's dance with her, missin' the conference which followed. That was just as well, as the only conference where Ptomaine would get any attention would be a conference of maniacs.

Pancho took me and the Kid to a room at the end of the hacienda, locked the doors and windows and otherwise throwed mystery around in a lavish way

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 with precautions for secrecy. With these preliminaries, he announces that the six guys we met at dinner is his deadly enemies! I'll give you his story like he gives it to us.

It seems that when Pancho Nogales was in power in Sonora durin' his revolutionary days, these six jobbies, composin' a oil syndicate, had double-crossed him. He thought their word was as good as their bond. It was—but their bond was worthless. Accordin' to Pancho, they got some valuable concessions from him, gypped him out of the jack they was supposed to pay for them, and, not content with that deviltry, they went to work and led him into a trap so's the Government army could capture him. Well, it's a hobby of Pancho's not to let nobady give him a pushin' around like that and get away with it, even if he's no longer a dictator, and for years he's schemed and plotted for revenge. Fin'ly, says Pancho, Lady Luck smiled on him with the results that he got these six scissor-bills together at his hacienda, makin' 'em think he'd decided to let bygones be bygones. How he pulled off that seemin'ly impossible stunt and just how he's goin' to bear down on these birds, Pancho says he will explain fully the next day.

"You are going to kill them?" gasps Kid Roberts, in alarm.

"Ah, no, señor," smiles Pancho, rubbin' his hands together, "I have done with killings. I have passed my word to my Government, and I am a gentleman. Had I these dogs in my hands ten years ago—well, a firing squad in the patio and poof—it is done! No.

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 señor, my revenge shall smack of the poetic. I shall thrust at their pocketbooks, where it will hurt most!"

Pancho was a peach of a talker—a hypnotist with language, what I mean! In no time at all he had me and the Kid all built up and ready to run them six yeggs ragged. When at last he pleaded with us to help him get even, swearin' he'd ask us to do nothin' illegal or dishonorable, we both unhesitatin'ly shook his hand and promised to be in his corner whenever he started. Down in that country the motto is "Mañana!" i. e., never do to-day what you can put off till to-morrow, so when we asked Pancho his plans he simply smiled and says we'll hear the whole works in the mornin'.

Well, me and Kid Roberts went back to the dance after hearin' Pancho's tale, and, of course, we now regarded the six strangers as villains of the first water. As we entered the patio, the American amongst Pancho's enemies stopped us. We give him a icy cold look. He'd saw us leave the place with Pancho and I suppose he figured Pancho had tipped us off about him and his gang.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," says the stranger, "but I want to tell you about our relation to Pancho Nogales. He—"

"That will do!" interrupts Kid Roberts sternly. "Pancho Nogales is your host, I believe, and, as a guest, I do not care to listen to any criticism of him while enjoying his hospitality!"

"Besides," I sneered, "we know all about it!"

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 The stranger gives us a queer look. Then he bows. "Very well," he says. "If you know all about it, there is nothing further to be said. Good-night, gentlemen!"

If we had only listened to that guy!...

Pancho kept out of our sight all the next mornin'—in fact, he didn't even show up for lunch. About the middle of the afternoon me and the Kid is strollin' up and down the patio for exercise, when the Kid lets forth a strangled gasp and buries his finger nails in my shoulder. No wonder. Approachin' us, arm in arm, is Pancho Nogales and Bob Young, the heavyweight champion!

Recoverin' from the first shock of this astonishin' discovery, me and the Kid slipped round a corner and watched 'em. They seemed to be arguin' about somethin'—Young shakin' his head doubtfully and Pancho wavin' his arms with that appealin' look on his face which was there when he talked to us. Knowin' what a high-class pleader Pancho was when he got well under way, I was satisfied that Young would do whatever this egg wanted. I immediately figured there was some kind of a plot in the air to injure Kid Roberts, and the dumfounded Kid did'ntdidn't [sic] know what to figure! We ducked around to the house, found Maida and sent her scurryin' for Pancho. In a few minutes the exdictator strolls up, smilin' pleasantly and rubbin' his hands together like a well-pleased pawnbroker. Kid Roberts went right to the point and demanded a explanation of the heavyweight champion's presence at the hacienda where he was also a guest.

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 "Ah!" says Pancho, still smilin', "that is how I will have revenge on those six devils who ruin me!"

Then whilst me and the Kid listen in open-mouthed amazement, Pancho tells us that he lured his six enemies to the hacienda with the promise that they would see Kid Roberts and Bob Young fight there for the heavyweight championship of the world! They had traveled thousands of miles to reach Tia Juana for the big battle, and when it was apparently called off there they eagerly accepted his invitation.

"I must confess that I don't see the point of all this," says Kid Roberts. "As I understand the situation, you have used Bob Young and myself as decoys to bring your enemies here. Well, what is next on your interesting program, and in what way do you think we could help you settle accounts?"

"You and Señor Young will fight for me!" says Pancho promptly.

"You mean thrash those men? Absurd!" says the Kid. "I told you I would do nothing that was—"

"A moment, señor!" butts in Pancho. "You misunderstand. It would indeed be absurd as you say, for you and Señor Young to attack those scoundrels. You will fight each other!"

Me and Kid Roberts just stares at him, thunderstruck.

"What—here?" exclaims Kid Roberts. "You—why, you're joking!"

"I never jest, Señor Roberts!" says Pancho earnestly. "I have wagered those six devils half a million

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 dollars that you will defeat Señor Young. Does that sound like a joke?"

"But, see here!" says the Kid excitedly, "you can't do a thing like this, you know. I—we—"

"You pledged me your word of honor that you would help me!" Pancho reminds him, "I am asking nothing dishonorable. I will pay both you and Sejfior Young handsomely for your services. I have a ring, gloves, and the other impedimenta at hand. I have planned this coup carefully for weeks. You, Señor Roberts, most opportunely appeared. Señor Young was brought here upon the pretence that he was to dine with high Government officials, with a view to straightening out the difficulty of holding the fight at Tia Juana. So you see—"

"Suppose I hadn't appeared and Young had refused to come?" butts in the Kid, half laughin'.

"Señor Roberts!" says Pancho pleasantly, "there are many who are still faithful to Pancho Nogales. I would have had both of you kidnapped. It is a thing I have been known to do well!"

"But how will my fighting Bob Young in any way affect your enemies?" persists the Kid.

"They will lose a half million dollars when you win!" hisses Pancho.

"I may lose," suggests Kid Roberts.

"The moon may be made of cheese, señor," answers Pancho, with a wink and a curl of his lip.

Somewhat to my alarm, Kid Roberts appears to be considerin' the thing seriously. He turns to me with knitted brow.

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 "Well, what do you think of all this, Joe?" he asks.

"The whole business sounds crazy!" I says, findin' my voice at last, "Why, if—"

"I will pay Señor Roberts fifty thousand dollars!" Pancho cuts me off. "There is nothing crazy about fifty thousand dollars. To Señor Young, the champion, I give one hundred thousand dollars!"

"Yes, and you'll give us a hundred grand too, Pancho, or we won't turn a wheel!" I says, hopin' that would wind matters up.

"It shall be as you wish, señor," returned Pancho smoothly, with a low bow, "You shall have one hundred thousand dollars, and I shall have revenge. You will be ready, then, to-night?"

"You're dizzy!" I almost shouted, before Kid Roberts could answer. "I should say we won't be ready to-night! I don't even know if we'll do it at all. Anyways, we got to have time to think this cuckoo idea of yours over. There's a whole lot of things to be taken up and—"

"Then let us take up those things now!' Pancho butts in." Further delay would be fatal to my plans—already those six fiends grow impatient, perhaps suspicious. Both Señor Roberts and Señor Young are trained to the minute and expected to fight at Tia Juana within a few days. Señor Young brings definite word that the bout has now been positively forbidden by the authorities. Then what is the objection to holding the contest here? As you say in your country: 'Eventually, why not now?' If not, you will go back to the United States empty-handed and out of pocket

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 your training expenses. On the other hand, if you fight here to-night you will be well paid. Señor Young has accepted my offer. You have promised on the word of an American gentleman to assist me in bringing those six villains to book. I await your answer with confidence, señors!"

Ain't we got fun?

Well, as Kid Roberts told me afterward, Pancho's deadly seriousness, the novelty of his proposition and his cool nerve in making it, appealed—to his sense of humor. The Kid had disliked the six strangers at first sight and the fact that they held him so cheap against Young that they was willin' to bet half a million he would lose aroused in him a strong desire to see them taken. But the winnin' argument was that hundred thousand Pancho was goin' to give us, Pancho's hundred thousand grand was important money to Kid Roberts. It meant a swift exit from the ring, a healthy stake to start a new trick with, and the return of the beautiful Dolores.

That's the way Pancho's stunt sized up to Kid Roberts, and in spite of my frenzied protests he accepted it. O sole mia!

The instant the Kid agreed, Pancho Nogales became the busiest guy in the land of Mexico. Trusted messengers was sent scamperin' to the trainin' camps of both Kid Roberts and Bob Young for their handlers. Others rode away to get Young's manager, the official timekeeper, and the referee. Pancho told his messengers that if one word leaked out to the authorities, they knew what to expect. From the way them cholos

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 turned pale and shivered, I was double positive that this fracas was goin' to be more secret than Mr. Secret himself!

The first one to arrive on the battle ground was Toledo Eddie Hicks, Bob Young's manager, and he was fit to be tied! The champ's pilot carried on like a maniac, swearin' me and Kid Roberts had framed his visible means of support, and yellin' that he wouldn't let Young go on with the fight if he had to call out the United States army to get him away from the hacienda. Neither Pancho or us even answered him, and fin'ly Bob Young, which since he won the title had been filled with the idea that a manager was a waste of good money, told Toledo Eddie to shut up and go roll his hoop if he didn't like the way things was goin'. Young thought Kid Roberts a set-up and sneerin'ly offered to bet half his end of Pancho's purse that the Kid wouldn't last six rounds. The offer was refused with thanks. Bob Young was a tough boy—he was also champion, and we was takin' no reckless chances with that hundred thousand. It meant too much, get me? Kid Roberts was goin' in there to do his best. He hoped to win. He figured he prob'ly would win, but if he did get knocked off, why, he wasn't goin' to go back home broke. Smart boy, eh? I thought so too till—but wait!

It was exactly 9.20 that night when Kid Roberts and Bob Young climbed through the ropes in the ghostly glare of a score of lanterns Pancho had stretched over the ring. Pancho sat with Maida and his six enemies at the ringside. The ex-bandit was as excited as a Kid

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 on Xmas Eve, but the six villains was as calm and collected as that many Supreme Court judges. What struck me funny at the time was that they paid much more attention to watchin' Pancho than they did to watchin' the fighters.

No wonder!

At 9.45 to the dot Harry Haines, which was to have been timekeeper at Tia Juana, pulled the bell, and the panic was on.

By agreement there was no hand-shakin', the men comin' out fightin'. Kid Roberts was nervous and looked worried, but Young was confidence itself. The champ landed the first blow, a light left to the head, and followed that with a terrific right uppercut that missed the Kid's jaw by inches and might of ended the fight had it landed. They clinched, and each was too busy tyin' the other up to get in any punishin' blows. On the word from the referee, they broke, and the Kid put a left and right to the wind which made Young grunt. Roberts then tried to feint Young into uncoverin' his jaw, but the champion laughed at him and hooked a hard right to the body. They was talkin' to each other, but what they was sayin' I don't know. Sorry! Kid Roberts shot two stiff lefts to the face. The Kid was now well warmed up, and a torrid right to the head rocked the champ and removed the smile from his pan. Young at once became all business, and they exchanged lefts and rights in mid ring till you could of heard them Mexicans yellin' in Montenegro, and Pancho much further than that! One of Young's swingin' rights caught the Kid high on the cheek bone

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 and raised a big lump. A few seconds later another right to the same place sent him back against the ropes. I bellered for him to clinch, but instead he suddenly straightened up as Young closed in to finish him and shot his left to the champ's jaw. It was a terrible punch, and Young went back on his heels just as the bell rung, sendin' him to his corner a very tired and a very thoughtful scrapper.

Havin' the time of his life, Pancho shook his fist at his six boy friends and yelled encouragement to Kid Roberts in Mexican and English. The six didn't give him a tumble. The Kid was in great shape as he sat on his stool, and required little attention. Over in Young's corner they was just drownin' him with advice.

Evidently sore at the Kid's showin' in the openin' frame, the champ come out in the second with a rush that swept Kid Roberts to the ropes. Young jolted the Kid hard with rights and lefts, but instead of coverin' up and givin' ground, Roberts seemed more than anxious to trade punches, and stopped Young's rally with two hard rights over the heart. A clinch caused the perspirin' referee plenty trouble bustin' up and then Young sent the Mexicans wild by droppin' the Kid to to canvas with a short right hook to the chin. Roberts took "eight" and come up shakin' his head to clear away the cobwebs. He tried to work in close, but Young jabbed him away with a nearly perfect left that soon started the claret in a stream from the Kid's nose. At this point Maida got up and left the ringside, her hands over her eyes. Young drove Roberts around

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 the ring with a shower of rights and lefts, fin'ly sendin' him down in a neutral corner. This time the Kid was hurt, but he was up at "nine," swayin' dizzily on his feet. Young carefully measured him with a straight left and sent him sprawlin' again with a clean right swing. The referee had just begun the count when the gong come to the rescue. Three knockdowns in that round. Not so good, but Kid Roberts wasn't out yet!

I had a very sick young man on my hands between the second and third rounds, whilst in Young's corner they were laughin' and jokin'. They figured the fight was in. I told Kid Roberts to stall out the next frame till he got a little stronger, and his answer, through lips puffed and bleedin' from Young's straight left, was that he was goin' to end it in the next frame! Pancho Nogales sat with his head in his hands sayin' nothin', and the six conspirators didn't look no more excited then they had from the start.

The third round of that quarrel was worth walkin' miles on your hands to see! Kid Roberts dashed from his corner and carried the fight to Young. He opened the ball with a sizzlin' left hook that rocked the champion from head to toe and brought a fresh outburst from the highly delighted Pancho. Young steadied himself and hooked his own left to the wind, but was short with a followin' right. Roberts missed a right swing, and then both forgot all they knew about science and slugged away like a couple of stevedores. A straight right connected with Young's jaw, and he dropped to one knee. Pancho went crazy and I wasn't far behind him.

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 "Finish him now, Kid!" I roared, and Roberts nodded coolly, waitin' for the groggy champ to rise.

Young was up at "seven," unsteady on his feet, but still willin' to make a fight of it. The Kid missed a left hook through bein' overanxious, and Young fell into a clinch. Roberts fought himself free, but he was tired and winded from the effort and the terrific pace, which was showin' on both men. Roberts drove a tight to the wind and a left to the face, takin' a stiff tight to the heart in return. This exchange seemed to wake both of 'em up again, and the fun waxed fast and furious. In this rally the Kid used his vicious right uppercut with such good effect that he soon had Young staggerin' all over the ring, plainly in distress. The Kid was wild, however, and missed a half dozen punches that would of made him champion. Toward the end of the round he hung Young over the ropes with a left to the jaw, and the champion slipped to a half sittin' position as the bell rung.

Both Kid Roberts and Young was dead tired in the fourth and content to spar for wind. The champion, hurt and very careful, took no chances, and the Kid, sure he had his man well started on the road to defeat, was satisfied to rest and recover his strength rather than waste it in wild and misplaced blows. About the middle of the round Young managed to send in a hard right to the head that seemed to bother Kid Roberts, but a barrage of rights and lefts to the wind had Young hangin' on for his life at the bell.

The champion's handlers worked like beavers over their man durin' the rest, while all the Kid required

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 was a light massage and half a orange jammed in his mouth. He himself stopped the jubilant Ptomaine from wavin' the towel, sayin' it chilled him. Pancho Nogales was screamin' his head off. His six victims might have been watchin' a checker tourney for all the emotion they displayed!

Young came out for the fifth round somewhat revived. He opened with two lefts to the face, and Kid Roberts closed in, hammerin'. Young seemed to wilt and hung on. The referee tore them apart, ahd on the break Roberts landed a left uppercut and a second later almost floored the champion with a right of the same brand.

Young was desperate now. He must of felt he was goin' to get it, and he clinched at every opportunity. Kid Roberts sent a half dozen clean jabs to the champ's face without a return. Young was bankin' everything on landin' one swing. A lucky punch was his only chance, and he knew it!

The Kid continued to shoot left jabs at Young's face, occasionally crossin' his right. With a dyin' flurry the champion staggered the too-eager Kid with a left swing to the neck, and, in attemptin' to follow with a right, Young fell to the floor. Kid Roberts helped him up, and the champ planted a right solidly in the ribs. The Kid rushed and drove Young before him with a volley of rights and lefts to head and body. The champ's defence was feeble, and the ropes against his back brought him up short in his own corner. He swung wildly with both hands, but the Kid had steadied now and blocked cleverly, keepin' the dazed Young off

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 balance with a straight left. With fifty-five seconds to go, Kid Roberts planted a left hook under the jaw and the champ tottered. Another left to the chin sent Young to his knees. He arose unsteadily, just in time to beat the count, and both the referee and the Kid called to the champ's handlers to throw in the towel. Instead, Young's seconds bawled for him to clinch, as the bell would save him in about twenty seconds.

The champ was too far gone for advice, however. He grazed the Kid's face with a weak left, and an instant later crashed to the canvas face down from a right to the point of his jaw. The gong clanged just three seconds after the referee had counted Young out, but it was fifteen minutes later before he was able to leave his corner!

Well, while Kid Roberts was shakin' Young's limp glove and tellin' him the old stuff about what a game fighter he was, Pancho Nogales rushed about like a wild man, almost cryin' with joy. The six which had lost half a million on the Kid's victory arose and went into the house, seemin'ly not the least bit disturbed by their hard luck. I left the Kid in the capable hands of Ptomaine and the other handlers and rushed up to Pancho for our hundred thousand bucks. Pancho throwed his arms around me and kissed me on both cheeks.

"Ah, but that was magnificent!" he says. "A contest to thrill the gods. Come—you shall have your reward!"

I followed him down to the room with the heavily barred vault, and after openin' between 65 and 124 locks, he swings wide the door and tells me to dash in

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 and help myself to the gold bars. I made one lunge past him and then let out a yell.

The vault was absolutely empty!

Kind of dazed, I turned to Pancho for a explanation, and he's nowheres in sight, but from the end of the hall comes sounds of scufflin'. I'm there as fast as a pair of tremblin' legs can take me, and my eyes pop out till you could of hung your hat on either of 'em when I see Pancho Nogales strugglin' in the grasp of his six enemies. One of them is sayin' soothin'ly:

"Come, Pancho, you have had enough excitement for one day. We shall put you to sleep for a while!"

Just then Maida blows in and walks up to this baby.

"Oh, Dr. Mazelli, shall I prepare a hypo?" she asks him.

I come out of my trance as a horrible suspicion begins to dawn on me!

"Doctor?" I holler. "What the—"

The American among the six whatnots looks at me curiously.

"I tried to explain to you, sir," he says coldly, "but you informed me that you knew all about it. Those were your very words. I naturally thought Mister Roberts and his friend Mister Young were conversant with General Nogales's condition and had put on that interesting boxing exhibition to humor the whim of a once great man. Nogales, of course, is as crazy as a bat—has been for years!"

Sweet Mamma!

"Then you guys ain't no oil syndicate which gypped him?" I managed to gasp.

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 The doctor smiles like I was a child or a idiot.

"My friend," he says, "we, the general's personal physicians, have listened to that hallucination of his for months. We are always the six who have ruined him! It grows tiresome, but is quite harmless. I—"

"But the jack—the hundred grand for fightin' Young?" I howled, interruptin' him. "Where do we get that?"

"My dear sir," says the doctor, lookin' at me in alarm, "is it possible that you are also mentally deranged?"

"I would advise the gentleman to file a claim with the Government," butts in another of the doctors, "which pays for all the general's reasonable expenditures."

"D'ye think there's any chance of me collectin'?" I asked him wildly.

"About the same day!" murmurs the American doctor thoughtfully.

"What d'ye mean the same day?" I says, crazy with rage.

"The same day the Gulf of Mexico turns into malted milk!" says the doctor, and turns to a grinnin' servant: "Pedro, show the gentleman out!"

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thousand years ago Mr. Roscoe Q. Anonymous snatched a lead pencil from a passin' pedestrian and dashed off the followin' applesauce:

This guy Anonymous has wrote plenty wise cracks and ample stories, but most of his best stuff has only saw the light of day in smokin' rooms and what used to be known as saloons when cracked ice and seltzer had a real mission in life. Now and then one of his snappy little anecdotes about the travelin' salesman or the young honeymooners pops up, but they lack the tang they used to have when served with the old private stock. Or maybe they was just as uncomical then, but we thought them riots after a session with the cup that queers. Anyways, that statement about a occasional dose of nonsense bein' required by the best of us contains more than a few drops of truth. There's a touch of clown in us all, and I bet there's many a digni-

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 fied Supreme Court judge who would just love to tear off a few little fancy steps on the way to the bench instead of his usual solemn tread. Sometimes givin' in to this silly streak in our natures acts as a useful safety valve to relieve the strain of our cares and worries. Other times it's exceedin'ly disastrous, like in the case of me, Kid Roberts, and Ptomaine Joe, for the example.

After Kid Roberts stopped Bob Young, the heavyweight champ, at the hacienda of Pancho Nogales, we fled that slab and come to New York, not one thin dime richer for our trouble. The thing's a laugh to me now—it wasn't then! How the so ever there was more grief en route for Kid Roberts. Happiness comes in thimbles, trouble in barrels! When we limped into New York, disgusted and all at sea financially, the first thing which greets the disheartened Kid is a legal invitation to attend a divorce trial staged by the charmin' Dolores. Whilst Kid Roberts is tryin' to see her and talk this little incident over, I commenced right in tendin' to business on the principle that whilst it's tough to lose out in love, it's even tougher to lose out on the coffee and cakes! I made the rounds of the sportin' editors, claimin' the world's heavyweight title for the Kid and tellin' 'em about that weird fracas in Mexico which resulted in the champion bein' knocked off by my athalete.

After I had furnished satisfactory proof to the grinnin' newspaper guys that I was by no means addicted to the habit-formin' drugs, they got in touch with Bob Young and Toledo Eddie Hicks. These couple of

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 two-handed liars says I was somethin' to highly interest a young interne in a lunatic asylum, as they never heard tell of no Pancho Nogales in all their upright lives, As for Young bein' flattened by Kid Roberts in Mexico—how do we get that way?

Well, there I was up against a brick wall and without no trowel, what I mean. I hadn't the scantiest bit of evidence on hand to bear out my story of the fight, so the sport writers laughin'ly told me to roll my hoop and positively refused to serve me even a half portion of attention. Fit to be tied, I challenged Young mornin', noon, and night, but this mock turtle asked for so many impossible concessions on our part that it was plain he didn't wish for no more of the Kid's game. Fin'ly, I managed to corner the burglar which handled him in the lobby of his hotel one night, and after listenin' to my pleadin's for a couple or three minutes he offers me a bout with his synthetic champ if we'll personally slip him $150,000, besides what Young can shoplift from the promoters!

I had often heard that Toledo Eddie Hicks once did time for tryin' to steal the city hall at Nightmare, Ala., but I had never put much stock in the tale till he made me that yegg proposition. For a minute I was speechless—a rare thing with me—and then I hauled off and smacked him right in the nose. This kind of treatment seemed to get on Edward's nerves and he hollers that on account of me playin' that prank on him, Kid Roberts will die of old age before he'll ever climb into a ring with his champion. As he dashed wildly for the elevator, holdin' on to his beak like he heard

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 somebody was goin' to take it off him, he swears he wouldn't even let Young meet the Kid at checkers, parcheesi, or marbles!

In the meanwhile Kid Roberts is standin' right on the brink of a nervous breakdown, because of the pushin' around he's gettin' on all sides. His wife won't give him a tumble, he's gettin' fearful answers to his appealin' letters to her, and now he's lost a chance at Young's title which would make him independent financially and let him step down from the ring. After watchin' him pacin' the floor at nights for the worst part of a week, duckin' the dinner gong and leapin' in the air like a Russian dancer at the mere openin' of a door, I dragged him off to a medico. The doc looks the boy over, stares at the ceilin', coughs a couple of times, and then orders a complete rest, recommendin' a trap called Hermit Inn, away up in Mrs. Catskill's Mountains. The pulseclocker says this place is so far from civilization that they still got their first postage stamp to see and it's just the place for Kid Roberts to hide out in and get right.

That was jake with me, but the Kid failed to cuddle up to the prescription. Life in the mountains and bein' busy doin' nothin' thrilled him like it thrills a goldfish to see a glass bowl, Furthermore, bein' a ex-champ, he's satisfied he'll be recognized and his vacation made too hard to take by the curious. At this critical point, Ptomaine Joe crashes into the breach with a typical maniacal scheme.

"C'mon, Kid," says Ptomaine, when we get back to our stalls at the hotel, "let's all shove off for them

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 mountains. 'At doc was nice enough to put the bee on you for a hundred bucks, so the least we can do in return is to folley out his plans. Besides, I know how we can go up there without nobody findin' out who we really are. I just this minute got the idea!"

"If you can prove you ever had a idea in your life, Silly," I sneers, "I can prove I'm the rightful heir to the Siamese throne!"

"People which lives in tin houses shouldn't throw can openers," says Ptomaine. "I don't think you're no master mind yourself!"

Kid Roberts interferes to stop bloodshed and violence.

"What is your idea that will prevent us from being recognized, Ptomaine?" he smiles. For some unknown reason the Kid gets a great kick out of this dizzy banana.

"Why, we can all go up there disguised as somethin' else!" says Ptomaine. "For the example, you make out you're a—a—well, a pote; Joe Murphy can claim he writes, now, plays; and I'll be a artist, get me? There's three things as different from what we are as boardin'-house hash is different from food! We can all act up to these disguises and nobody will get hep 'at we even seen a box fight, let alone been in one. Ain't 'at a rip of a plant?"

Ptomaine has stopped so many right swings with his bullet head that it's made him a little goofy. He don't know what it's all about, what I mean.

"Get back in line, Stupid!" I says. "Where d'ye get that disguise stuff? So you'll pretend you're a

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 artist, hey? Don't make me laugh! Go up there and tell 'em you're a professional idiot and they'll all believe you without question!"

Then I throwed the phone book at this clown, but unfortunately it missed him. In the ring, anybody can hit him with anything.

Kid Roberts laughs his head off for a minute, and then he looks at Ptomaine very thoughtful. "Ptomaine," he says, "your scheme is just crazy enough to attract me in the mood I'm in now. As Joe would say, I'm pretty low and anything that promises even momentary diversion—that will allow me to get my mind off myself and my worries—appeals to me. We shall go up to the Catskills in exactly the manner you suggest!"

And that's just what we done.

We was positively somethin' for the comic supplement when we checked into Hermit Inn a brace of days later. Should you of saw us you'd of laughed yourself into the hystericals, no foolin'! Kid Roberts, the "poet," packs a suit case full of limericks by bozos entitled Shelley, Keats, Burns, Browning, Kipling, and whatnot. He features a flowin' black tie, long hair, and tortoise-shell cheaters, and he acts so timid and shy that a rabbit would of reared up and smacked him in the pan, just to be nasty. Me and Ptomaine, "playwright" and "artist," is likewise dressed like a couple of cake eaters and we're all set to do some actin' which would of made Edwin Booth cut his throat!

We register as Launcelot Eversley (Kid Roberts),

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 Percy Begay (me), and Chauncey Love (Ptomaine Joe). Laugh that off!

Well, speakin' of anchovies, at first peep Hermit Inn seemed to be the last word in what Kid Roberts called "isolation." Outside of the bewhiskered old gil which run the joint and a set of bell hops which looked like they was playin' hooky from a movie comedy, the place was as deserted as the top of Mt. Everest. We got a nice suite, the eats wasn't hard to take, the crisp mountain air put us all in the caperin' stage, and Kid Roberts was tickled silly with the whole layout. In fact, we was seriously considerin' castin' off our disguises and bein' ourselves as long as there was nobody around to kid, when—clunk! The amusement commenced!

We're sittin' at ease in the lonesome lobby one mornin' talkin' about this and speakin' about that, when a stagecoach dashes up to the inn. We had no fault to find with that part of it, but when a loudly chatterin' mob of people poured out of the coach and bounded into our boardin' house it was different! Old Father Time, our jovial host, and the trick attendants rushes out and fusses all over 'em. Caught in the jam, we're introduced to the noisy newcomers by them phony labels we registered under and they're introduced to us as a championship college football team, a flock of male and female students and their lovin' parents.

Well, we tried to duck, but it was like tryin' to duck your landlord. The handsome Kid's get-away was blocked by a flirtin'ly inclined young flapper which could of blocked most of Napoleon's plans, as he would

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 of immediately made others once he seen her. Her name was Eva Littleton, she was about five foot two of thrill, and what she fin'ly done to Kid Roberts, the "poet," was plenty!

That same afternoon the crew of Hermit Inn and most of the newly arrived guests got busy and cleared out the biggest room in the place, waxin' the floor and decoratin' the walls with the colors of their kindergarten, which I think was blue, red, purple, green, brown, and black, with a dash of yellow. They broke out a dance that night after dinner and the fun waxed fast and furious. The beauteous Eva gave Kid Roberts no chance to escape and they killed the bulk of the evenin' together, discussin' the newest and oldest poetry when not glidin' around the floor, with little Eva lookin' up into the Kid's eyes like he was Uncle Tom.

A couple of tasty cuteys sees me and Ptomaine givin' lifelike imitations of wallflowers and they make up their sweet little minds to entertain us. Bein' much and contentedly wed to a damsel which would of kept Gulliver's mind off his travels, I would just as soon of bowed out, but Ptomaine greets the ladies with open delight. This big mug is crazier over the girlies than Henry the Eighth was!

We trip a small dance with the girls and then walk out on the pazzaza to talk matters over.

"Of course you will think me stupid," says the home breaker I'm with, "but I can't seem to recall what plays you have written, Mister Begay. Won't you refresh my memory?"

"Absolutely!" I says, without crackin' a grin. "I

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 dashed off 'Lightnin',' 'Forty-Five Minutes from Broadway,' 'The Bat,' 'Zaza,' 'Camille,' 'Ben Hur,' 'The Follies,' and 'Ten Nights in a Barroom.' Then I likewise had a finger in composin' 'The College Widow,' 'Brown of—

"Why—why, Mister Begay!" interrupts my delightful adversary, "those plays were written by Frank Bacon, George M. Cohan, George Ade, Dumas, and—let's see—Mary Roberts Rinehart, and—"

"Aha!" I butt in with a wink, "that's what you think. Them's just the nicknames I use so's to hide my real name if my show's a flop, get me? A man in my position has got to be careful, what I mean. One failure would just about break my heart!"

She gives me a odd look.

"Have you ever used William Shakespeare as a non de plume, Mister Begay?" she asks me.

"Well, you're certainly the smartest girl I ever met in my life!" I says, admirin'ly. "I never thought nobody would find that out! Did you guess it, or was you tipped off?"

"I knew by your conversation," she says, with a innocent smile. "The plays signed William Shakespeare are in blank verse, as you of course know, and you're blank too, aren't you?"

"Pick up the marbles," I says. "You win!"

Ptomaine, the "artist," was the next witness.

"Are you at home in oils, Mister Love?" inquires his fair tête-à-tête.

"Where d'ye get that stuff?" says Ptomaine politely. "I'm a artist, not a sardine!"

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 The Jane with me giggles, but the other one looks a bit embarrassed. She tries to get the conversation headed right.

"Don't you think, Mister Love, that Raphæl was a far more vivid colorist than Rubens?" she says.

"Eh—well, 'at's what you call a matter of taste," says Ptomaine gamely. He don't know whether them guys was painters or plumbers! "Personally, I prefer Bud Fisher, or the guy which draws Barney Google."

This time his pretty opponent seems a bit steamed. She prob'ly thought she was bein' gave a run around, but Ptomaine was really doin' his best.

"Just what do you paint, Mister Love?" she asks.

"Me?" says Ptomaine, grinnin' like a hyena. "Oh, practically anything! Barns! signs, flagpoles, houses, automobiles, boats, trolley cars, chiffoniers—well, to be frankly with you, kid, they's no holdin' me once I get my hands on a paint pot and brush!"

At that minute a couple of these milk-fed college boys comes over and accuses the girls of havin' dancin' appointments with 'em. The young women couldn't get up quick enough.

Leavin' the cotillon-leadin' Ptomaine to search for fresh victims, I raced around hithers and yon, fin'ly windin' up in the midst of the football players. The very first morsel of conversation I caught glued me to the spot. What they're all enthusiastically talkin' about is the fact that Kid Roberts is daily expected to arrive at Hermit Inn!

At first I was afraid we'd all been recognized, but I

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 fin'ly decided we hadn't when none of the brawny gridiron warriors give me a tumble. Then I remembered that I'd made the original reservations for us at Hermit Inn under our real names and had forgot to explain matters when we registered as poet, playwright, and artist. The ancient jazzbo which operated the resort had most doubtless told the students that the famous ex-champion was comin' to park at his deadfall and the college boys is all excited about the thing. I tried to horn in amongst 'em and get pally, but they immediately put on the ice for me. They was so sore at the supposed "poet" for capturin' Eva Littleton that the three of us was about as popular as gallopin' consumption.

One bird in particular kept glowerin' at the Kid and Eva and mutterin' under his breath in a way which soon got me plenty leary. This boloney was nothin' else than Jim Barnaby, captain and fullback of the football addicts. He was a whale of a man, there was no question about that—somethin' over six foot with his hair brushed back, high cheek-boned, thicknecked, and with shoulders on him like a bull. Oh, this entry was a tough baby, and when I heard that he was Eva's heavy boy friend and knew he hadn't recognized Kid Roberts, I seen nothin' ahead for us that was pleasant!

Well, durin' the next few days Eva Littleton didn't give the Kid a minute's peace. From the way she clung to the boy her name could of been Ivy instead of Eva! Kid Roberts would stroll about with these books of pomes under his arm, duckin' behind trees

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 when he seen her, but she was a world beater at hide-an-go-seek and always managed to nail him. When Eva asked him what he thought about Kid Roberts, "a common prize fighter," comin' to the inn, the Kid merely smiled and says he ain't enthused, as he dislikes boxin' exceedin'ly much. This made a big hii with Eva, which seemed to look on leather pushers like she'd look on lepers. How the so ever, the college boys, not knowin' the reason for the "poet's" lack of interest in Kid Roberts's arrival, begin openly sneerin' at the alleged rimester and speakin' of him—one of the greatest scrappers which ever laced on a glove—as a mollycoddle. What a scream that was, hey? Jim Barnaby was nastier than the rest of 'em, behind the "poet's" back. That a apparent weak sister had accumulated his girl got the husky football star positively red-headed!

One mornin' after breakfast Kid Roberts and Ptomaine is playin' pinochle in the room and I'm readin' the paper—my favorite book—when a flock of wild cheers disturbs my well-shaped ears. I look out the window and right at the entrance to the inn is a tall, broad-shouldered stranger surrounded by the college girls and boys. The handsome city chap is grinnin' and doffin' his cap to a reception which would of wrung a smile from Cæsar, which they tell me was ravenous when it come to applause.

Well, I thought to myself that medico certainly put over a fast one on us when he sent us up to this hotel, sayin' it would be as empty as a political pledge. As a matter of fact, it was turnin' out to be

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 busier than Forty-second and Broadway at 8 p. m. First a football team and their confederates arrive, then along comes this new sensation which is now downstairs bein' welcomed to death. If Hermit Inn was quiet, then so's a steam drill!

Anyways, as it's a hobby of mine to be curious, I went down and interviewed one of the jolly students.

"What's this guy's racket?" I asks, noddin' to the flurry-creatin' newcomer.

The young man stops hollering "Hurray!" long enough to gaze at me in simple amazement.

"D'ye mean to say you don't know who he is?" he asks me, like how I can be so ignorant and live.

"I can get affidavits to that effect," I says promptly.

"Well," says Mr. Student, "that's Kid Roberts!"

Hot towel!

I stare at the boy closely, but he don't seem to be clownin'—he means what he says, that's a cinch.

"Listen," I says. "What gives you the maniacal idea that this tomato is Kid Roberts? Did he claim he was the Kid?"

"Well—yes and no," says the college boy. "When he arrived, one of the fellows greeted him as Kid Roberts and he acknowledged the salutation—after a momentary embarrassment."

"I can easy understand the momentary embarrassment!" I says, curlin' my lip.

"So can I," says my young friend. "He probably hoped to pass unrecognized here, and our discovery of his identity annoyed him."

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 "He's goin' to be annoyed some more, young-fellow-me-lad!" I says heartily. "And if you don't think so you're crazy!"

Leavin' the youth to gaze after me in puzzlement, I rushed upstairs and bust in on Kid Roberts and Ptomaine with the spectacular information that below decks we have a gent which is passin' himself off as the Kid. That ruined the pinochle game and Ptomaine says he'll go right down and slap the gay masquerader for a gondola. This procedure seemed to me to be about right, after which we could expose this baby to his new-found admirers. But Kid Roberts, which don't seem able to stop laughin', interferes with our plans. The strange situation appeared to vastly entertain the Kid and he says to leave the impostor alone for the time bein' and we'll get a lot of laughs out of watchin' his capers in tryin' to carry off the part of a ex-heavyweight champion.

There was a lot of laughs, all right, only we didn't get 'em!

When me, the Kid, and Ptomaine went down to lunch, this guy which is pretendin' to be Kid Roberts is carryin' on smartly—a island of self-satisfaction entirely surrounded by a sea of worshipin' faces. He's throwin' out a good-sized chest and puttin' on dog like a Ethiopian field hand with a new pair of yellow shoes. It made me and Ptomaine boil, but all it made Kid Roberts do was smile. As we try to shove past the millin' mob in the lobby, Mr. Liar is tellin' the boys and girls all about his "ring battles" with a gusto and makin' 'em like it! He's danc-

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 in' around, throwin' rights and left at the air, whilst the crowd watches in awe.

Both me and Kid Roberts had to hoid Ptomaine which immediately had violent designs on this fellow's health. Some of the college boys sees us and we're pushed in and introduced to "Kid Roberts," and it certainly must of been a peculiar sensation for the Kid to be made acquainted with a jobbie which was posin' as himself!

This big sapolio sneers when Jim Barnaby scornfully tells him we're poet, playwright, and artist. I thought, or rather hoped, he was goin' to choose one of us.

"The idea of a guy as big as you writin' poultry!" he grunts to Kid Roberts. "I suppose you do embroidery too, don't you?"

The college kiddies laughs and Ptomaine's neck muscles begin to swell, but Kid Roberts just smiles pleasantly.

"I have been proficient at lacing!" he says.

I'll say he was. He's laced 'em all!

Well, bein' convinced that this parsnip had no idea just who we really was, the three of us commenced to ask him questions about his alleged box fights, and it was a scream to watch his frantic attempts to keep from bein' trapped. The lunch gong was all that saved him!

For the next two or three days the atmosphere around Hermit Inn was the same as the atmosphere used to be in a front-line trench before the lieutenant looked at his wrist watch, tightened his tin hat, and

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 said: "Well, let's go!" There was a highly nervous tension in the air, what I mean. This large blah which claimed to be Kid Roberts was lookin' the eye-fillin' Eva Littleton over with speculative eyes, Jim Barnaby was plainly double cuckoo over her, Ptomaine was tryin' to promote himself with great unsuccess as usual, whilst Eva was devotin' all her time and attention to the noncommittal Kid. It was certain with that layout that somethin' was goin' to break and, bein' certain, it did!

One day Kid Roberts is out strollin' in the woods around the inn with his pomes and Eva, when Ptomaine busts into my room as excited as a candidate at the ticker on election night. He demands to know where the Kid is, and when I tell him he grabs hold of my arm and insists that we go right after him.

"How come?" I says. "Kid Roberts is safe enough with Eva and if she should get fresh, why, he's a boy which can take care of himself anywheres."

"I ain't worryin' about Eva," says Ptomaine. "Though she sure is a snappy number and I only wish she'd give me a play. It's them football guys which has got me upset. There's goin' to be dirty work at the, there is for a fact. Them rah-rah boys is framin' to put Kid Roberts over the jumps!"

"Which one of your spies reported that?" I asks, slightly interested. "Or have you been toyin' with that Long Island Scotch again?"

"Listen!" says Ptomaine. "I drop a dime through a crack in the porch and you know I ain't goin' to grin and bear 'at, so I'm down under the boards look-

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 in' for it, get me? Well, a bunch of them football fiends comes out on the porch with this egg which is tellin' everybody he's Kid Roberts. They're right over me and I couldn't miss a word they're sayin' if listenin' called for a twenty-year rap at hard labor. This Jim Barnaby, which is overboard over Eva, is there and he's doped out a scheme to force the Kid to leave here in disgrace. They're goin' to pull it to-day and we got to stop 'em!"

"Stop 'em from what?" I says. "Did you find out what they figured on doin' to the Kid?"

Ptomaine looks sheepish. "To tell you the truth," he says, "just as they got to 'at part of it I thought I seen 'at dime I lost and of course—eh—well, my, now, interest kind of—"

"C'mon, you big dumb-bell!" I says, grabbin' my hat. "And if this turns out to be a false alarm I'll cook you. I'm gettin' sick and tired of lookin', at that funny pan of yours, anyways!"

"If I want to look homely, 'at's my business!" says Ptomaine indignantly. "As far as 'at goes, I ain't never seen nobody mistake you for no Follies beauty!"

Further discussion along these highly interestin' lines is interrupted by a frantic knockin' at the door. Ptomaine flung it open, and then steps back with a gasp of surprise. No wonder! There stands Eva Littleton, out of breath, weepin', and wringin' her hands.

"Oh you must come with me at once!" she pants out. "Your friend the poet—Mister Eversley—has been kidnapped!"

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 "What did I just tell you?" says Ptomaine to me triumphantly. "I knew them guys would—"

"Shut up!" I cut him off harshly, and turn to Eva: "Tell me all about this and make it snappy!" I commands. "When did this happen?"

"Not ten minutes ago," says Eva tearfully. "We—Mister Eversley and me—were walking in the forest near the inn, when without warning a dozen or more men suddenly sprang out from behind the trees and attacked him. He had no chance at all to fight them off—there were too many for him, and he had been taken by surprise. They didn't harm me—in fact, they paid no attention to me at all—and when they overpowered poor Mister Eversley and carried him off I rushed right back here to tell you!"

"You done right!' I says, pattin' her back. Then I reached in the bureau drawer and took out my gat. It's a army .45 automatic, and you could blow up Boston with it!

"Who was these kidnappers, d'ye know?" I ask Eva, who shudders and covers her pretty face with her little white hands when she sees the gun.

"They were masked," she tells me. "But I—I think I recognized some of them."

"I think you did too!" growls Ptomaine, tightenin' up his belt and flexin' his mighty arms. "But don't let 'em worry you. When we get done with them guys their own lovin' parents won't be able to recognize 'em!"

"C'mon, let's go!" I says. "And all you got to do, Miss Littleton, is tell us exactly where this abduction

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520 ment; a ready-made one. It was finished, it was complete, its materials were strong and lasting, it needed no furbishing up, no repairs; it merely needed to be let alone. It was the first brick, the Foundation Stone, upon which was reared a mighty Empire—the Indian Empire of Great Britain. It was the ghastly episode of the Black Hole that maddened the British and brought Clive, that young military marvel, raging up from Madras; it was the seed from which sprung Plassey; and it was that extraordinary battle, whose like had not been seen in the earth since Agincourt, that laid deep and strong the foundations of England's colossal Indian sovereignty.

And yet within the time of men who still live, the Black Hole was torn down and thrown away as carelessly as if its bricks were common clay, not ingots of historic gold. There is no accounting for human beings.

The supposed site of the Black Hole is marked by an engraved plate. I saw that; and better that than nothing. The Black Hole was a prison—a cell is nearer the right word—eighteen feet square, the dimensions of an ordinary bed-chamber; and into this place the victorious Nabob of Bengal packed 146 of his English prisoners. There was hardly standing room for them; scarcely a breath of air was to be got; the time was night, the weather sweltering hot. Before the dawn came, the captives were all dead but twenty-three. Mr. long account of the awful episode was familiar to the world a hundred years ago, but one seldom sees in print even an extract from it in our day. Among the striking things in it is this. Mr. Holwell, perishing with thirst, kept himself alive by sucking the perspiration from his sleeves. It gives one a vivid idea of the situation. He presently found that while he was busy drawing life from one of his sleeves a young English gentleman was stealing supplies from the other one. Holwell was an unselfish man, a man of the most gen-


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 took place. There's no need of you comin' along with us, because when we meet up with them boloneys it will be no place for a lady!"

"Oh!" she says, kind of frightened. "What are you going to do with that horrible looking revolver?"

"They tell me these woods is full of lions and tigers," I grins. "And I want to be able to cope with 'em."

Well, me and Ptomaine dashed madly out to the spot in the woods where Eva told us Kid Roberts had turned into Kid Napped. Outside of the chirpin' of some irresponsible birds and the swishin' of the wind in the trees, you couldn't hear a sound and I don't care how big your ears are. I took out my gun, seen it was ready to co-operate with me, and Ptomaine reached up and pulled off a limb of a handy tree for aclub. We're all set to ruin them college guys, when—Gazunk! A couple of 200-pound huskies dives at my legs from behind and two more treats Ptomaine to a football tackle too! My cannon and Ptomaine's shillalah is wrenched from our hands by more reinforcements which comes up on the run, and the next thing we know that entire football team is usin' us as divans.

What"What [sic] a fine couple of rescuers we turned out to be!"

After sittin' on us to their hearts' content and payin' exactly no attention to my frantic squawks and Ptomaine's cruel and unusual oaths, the genial university inmates bind our arms behind us and orders us to march on ahead of 'em. Havin' little or no

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 choice, we done like we was told till we come to a clearin' in the woods, and there a sight met our eyes which caused Ptomaine to let out a wild beller, and lowerin' his head, he butted the two cut-ups nearest him flat on their backs. With great presence of mind, I kicked the ones next to me right in the shins and their surprised howls was sweet music to my ears. The next minute them young fiends ties up our legs and rolls us to one side of the way.

What caused us to run amuck was Kid Roberts, blindfolded, gagged, and bound to a tree! He was likewise drippin' wet, and a pond nearby furnished the answer to that! Whilst me and Ptomaine rolls around helplessly on the ground, bustin' with rage but unable to do anything, the pleasin' subject of tarrin' and featherin' Kid Roberts is discussed by the students and fin'ly voted down. Had they ever done that, we would of bumped each and everyone of them babies off if we had to chase 'em all over the world!

From chance remarks I managed to pick up, I found out that this gang of half wits had presented Kid Roberts with what they call a "hazin in dear old college. Apparently, their antics had been more humiliatin' than injurious to anything but the Kid's temper. If you think it strange that they was able to manhandle a ex-heavyweight champ, don't forget they all scaled around two-hundred pounds, was built in proportion, in football condition, had took the Kid by surprise and was about twenty against one! Dempsey would of had to bow to that type of a mob!

After these educated ruffians had amused them-

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 selves some more at the expense of Kid Roberts, they untied him from the tree, took off the gag and blindfold and led him to the middle of the clearin', still with his arms bound. I squirmed around on the ground to get a look at him, and, boys and girls, there was hot-blooded murder in each of his blazin', steel-gray eyes! Just to say he was burnt up would be a niggardly use of the descriptive. He was fit to enter a bitin' contest with a bear, no kiddin'!

In the clearing they'd rigged up a kind of ring with some of the manila left over from the tyin'-up party, and in it stood this fake Kid Roberts pullin' on a pair o' mitts.

Jim Barnaby looks the real Kid up and down and laughs sneerin'ly, tosses him a pair of gloves, and tells the supposed "poet" that as a climax to the day's sport he's got to fight the world-famous Kid Roberts or sign a confession that he's yellow which they'll show to Eva Littleton. On this cue the mock orange which has been masqueradin' as Kid Roberts steps forward, folds his arms on his chest, and glares at the Kid. I noticed, how the so ever, that this counterfeit seemed a bit nervous as he took in Kid Robert's mighty muscles and the look of the killer in his eyes.

Barnaby points out in the most insultin' language he could think of that the "poet" is every bit as big and burly as "Kid Roberts" and that nothin' in the world should prevent him from takin' a chance, unless he's willin' to admit that he's faint-hearted. One of these college boys told me later that they hadn't the slightest intention of allowin' such a scrap to take

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 place, as they didn't want the "poet" killed. They figured he'd get right down on his knees and plead to be let go, bein' only too glad to flee from Hermit Inn immediately. They was in no way prepared for the stunnin' shock of what happened within the next few minutes, I'll tell the cross-eyed world that!

Ptomaine bellered to be allowed to fight this so-called "Kid Roberts" or any two of the football team, but nobody give him service. The real Kid Roberts was insane with anger at his kidnappin' and hazin' and he was also smokin' hot over his blank cartridge tradin' on his name and reputation at Hermit Inn. He pulled on the gloves and reached the guy claimin' his name in one leap. A swift feint with his lightnin' left, almost too fast for the eye to follow, then—sock! The right which once won him a world's championship crosses to the button and this impostor went down as if shot through the head. He couldn't of got up if he'd of been called to the presidency!

Whilst the dumfounded football players is gazin' in absolute amazement at the mighty "Kid Roberts" flattened by a single punch from the despised "poet," the ragin' Kid whirls around on 'em and invites the entire team to give him a battle, one at a time or all at once, he don't give a whoop which!

With one accord, the gang looks expectantly at big Jim Barnaby, just as Eva Littleton arrives on the scene to stare wide-eyed at the picture which met her frightened gaze. The alleged "Kid Roberts" prostrate on the ground as cold as a loan shark's heart, me and Ptomaine almost beside him and tied hand

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 and foot to boot, her beloved "poet" wilder than his flowin' locks and rarin' to go as he glares homicide at the gay collegians, and Jim Barnaby's bein' pushed forward to do his stuff. Eva's a smart girl and she knows what's goin' to happen.

"Oh, they're going to fight!" she wails, turnin' to the others. "Won't somebody stop them?"

The football players looks uneasily away from her, but there was no answer. Eva was on a busy wire just then! Jim Barnaby glances at her and then at Kid Roberts. He smiles—a confident, sneerin' grin. His pals unloose the gloves from the prostrate mock orange, lace 'em on Barnaby, who's pulled off his sweater and is ready for business.

Without a instant's hesitation, Kid Roberts shot a hard left flush to the chin and Mr. Barnaby went down on his haunches. As his astonished friends gasped a surprised "Oh!" Eva hid behind a tree. His face a mass of amazement, Barnaby rose almost on the bounce and clinched, showin' by that and a few other things which come up later that the art of boxin' was no hidden mystery to him! Plenty heavier and younger than the Kid,—in wonderful condition from his football trainin' and as stout-hearted as I've seen 'em, James was far from a set-up, as he soon proved.

On the break, Kid Roberts, mad and therefore wild, missed a right hook, and Barnaby promptly stepped in with a sizzlin' uppercut which drove the Kid's head back like it was hinged to his neck. The college guys howled, "How d'ye like him, Mister Poet?" and danced

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 around with glee. From the ground I yelled to Kid Roberts to make Barnaby lead to him and then beat him to the punch.

Barnaby tried another uppercut, but it fell short as the Kid danced lightly away. They went into another clinch, durin' which Barnaby tried to use his heavier build to wrestle Kid Roberts to the ground. Some short, stiff chops to the wind, how the so ever, drove that idea out of Jamesy's head, and a terrible right to the heart made him break ground, open-mouthed and gaspin'.

"Let him fall, Kid!" roars Ptomaine, but Barnaby's back was innocent of yellow, I'll say that for him. He side-stepped a left and again uppercut hard with his right, bringin' Kid Roberts up on his toes and startin' the gore flowin' from the ex-champion's nose and mouth. At this stage, either through carelessness or luck, the Kid actually seemed to be a mark for Barnaby's right uppercut and the football star's team mates was crazy with joy.

After steppin' around each other carefully for a full minute, Kid Roberts woke up and jabbed Barnaby four times to the mouth without a return and then cut the collegian's eye with a straight right. A overhand left to the same spot closed the optic tight, and the maddened Barnaby rushed, only to be met with a storm of rights and lefts to the stomach that dropped him to his knees for the second knockdown.

Kid Roberts was cool now and timin' his blows carefully, whilst Barnaby, hurt and enraged by his inability to stop this remarkable "poet," had completely

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 lost his head. James rose from the ground, and the Kid immediately clinched with him, askin' him did he want to call it a day before somebody got badly punished. Barnaby's answer was to grab Kid Roberts about the waist and rough him to the turf, where he fell on top of him, punchin' with both hands to the face as they struggled around there. "Tell 'at big tramp to fight fair, you bunch of yellah dogs!" screams Ptomaine, tuggin' frantically at his bonds. I was blue in the face with rage, but bein' tied hand and foot could do nothin' but yell murder!

The football players rushed over and helped both men up and Kid Roberts is so infuriated at Barnaby's foul fightin' that he ain't fit to be at large! His bare shoulder is cut and scraped from a rock he fell on, he's bleedin' freely from the mouth and blowin' like a porpoise, but if he don't want to fight, then neither does Harry Wills. I wouldn't of been Jim Barnaby right then for Rockefeller's last week's profits!

Barnaby rushed at the Kid, eager to knock him off whilst he's in the distress he so plainly showed. The air is full of advice from his team mates, who figure it's all over. James put a hard left to the Kid's sore mouth that wobbled his head, and the trusty right uppercut, catchin' Kid Roberts off his balance, floored him. He was up in a flash—was fightin' furiously again whilst the boys is still cheerin' Barnaby for the fluke. The Kid come in crouchin' this time and sent a fearful right and left to the stomach.

Barnaby began to back-pedal, but Kid Roberts followed him like fate! He sent a wicked right to Barna-

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 by's heart, and, the gridiron performer tried to clinch, but the Kid beat him off with crushin' jabs to face and body. Barnaby's face was now a crimson smear and his knees was quiverin' in time with the twitchin' muscles of his broad back. He swung wildly with left and right, but Kid Roberts ducked these desperate efforts with ease, counterin' with straight lefts which was just remodelin' Barnaby's face, that's all! To me and Ptomaine it was only a question of how much Barnaby could take, for the Kid was playin' with him now like a baby plays with a rattle.

Fin'ly the bewildered Barnaby, urged on by his equally bewildered boy friends, started another rush and managed to land a right swing to the Kid's neck. It was a stiff punch, but Kid Roberts merely grinned, measured his man carefully and coolly, and shot a torrid left and right to the jaw. Barnaby staggered back on his heels fully ten feet before he brought up. "There he goes!" bawls Ptomaine—and there he went! Kid Roberts was on top of him with the speed of a frightened deer. One terrific right to the point of the jaw and Mr. James Barnaby fell flat on his face, a total loss. It was close to five minutes before the young man even opened his one good eye!

Kid Roberts pulls off his gloves, gently picks him up and props him carefully against a tree, tellin' the open-mouthed bunch to hustle some throwin' water from the pond and some drinkin' water from the creek. Eva's beaded bag produced much-needed smellin' salts. White-faced and tremblin', that young lady seemed to be speechless. The Kid workin' over Barnaby, re-

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 marked that he was thoroughly ashamed of himself for what he called a "beastly display of temper!" Chili sauce—look what they done to him!

When Barnaby fin'ly comes to life, Kid Roberts tells him who he really is and just why he pretended to be a poet at Hermit Inn. He likewise adds that Barnaby's a good, game fighter, and the still dazed Barnaby weakly shakes his hand.

I now look for Eva to throw her arms around the handsome neck of the victorious Kid Roberts, and so would you, now wouldn't you? She was more than addicted to him when he was a despised "poet" and now that he's turned out to be a standard size 576, lot 749, 68-carat Hero, why, the clinch seems positive. We all expect it—it's on the cards!

Never again will I expect no women to run to the chart. They don't, and that's all there is to it! When little Eva heard that Kid Roberts was simply a prize fighter and not no composer of passionate pomes, she drew away from him like he had smallpox, runs to the dejected and muchly battered Jim Barnaby and—kisses him! Can you tie that?

The Kid views 'em and laughs, then he unties me and Ptomaine. We immediately look around for the false alarm which posed as Kid Roberts, but that gent has went away from there! We never saw him since, and who wants to?

Ptomaine stretches his cramped arms and watches Eva and Barnaby with a gloomy frown on his homely pan.

"Any of you guys feel like steppin'?" he snarls to

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 the football players. "I don't figure you tramps has paid off yet for what you done to Kid Roberts, get me? I'll take you four at a time to make it a little even. C'mon, chums, let's go!"

"We've had enough fighting!" butts in Kid Roberts sternly. "I consider accounts settled, and that ends the incident. Let's get back to the inn and forget it!"

Kid Roberts is Ptomaine's god, and this big sap would jump off the city hall flagpole into a cigar box if the Kid asked him. I often wish he would! Anyways, Ptomaine is about to walk sullenly away, when he happens to see five or six of these college boys standin' in a line watchin' their fallen captain and still tryin' to figure out how it all happened. Ptomaine's face brightens.

"Hey, you guys!" he calls sharply.

They all wheeled around, and, seein' Ptomaine, give him a loud laugh.

Ptomaine glared. Then he suddenly drew back his gigantic right arm and let go at the fellow nearest him, landin' with a dull sock on his jaw. His prey went down, fallin' against the guy in back of him and the second victim stumbled against the next one in tryin' to hold his balance. That throwed a third guy off his feet and the whole bunch goes down like ninepins in a busy bowlin' alley. They couldn't of done it no funnier should they have rehearsed it for a week! Ptomaine looks down at 'em with a satisfied sneer.

"See can you laugh that off, you big stiffs!" he snarls, and walks away, happy.

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''Polo Grounds, N. Y.—Fighting one of the greatest battles of his career, Kid Roberts, challenger for the world's heavyweight championship, knocked out K. O. Ford here to-day in the seventh round of a scheduled fifteen-round contest. Both men took a lot of punishment, but Kid Roberts proved the hardest hitter. A terrible right uppercut to Ford's jaw one minute and twenty seconds after the start of the seventh round ended one of the most spectacular bouts in the annals of the game. It was a triumph of slugger over boxer.''

sauce—it was a triumph of a fightin' heart over a faint one! The rest of the above newspaper account of the Kid Roberts-Knockout Ford battle, I guess you've already perused. There was two or three columns about the thing in all the papers, with views of the fight-mad mob—35,000 filed through the dear old turnstiles—great photos of the knockdowns and other high lights of the quarrel, includin' the sensational knockout. It was a whale of a fight and the

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 pop-eyed sport writers done it full justice, they did for a fact! Plenty breakfast ham and eggs growed cold and plenty wives growed hot the next mornin', whilst propped against the sugar bowl the sport page was hungrily devoured by friend husband.

But speakin' of alligator pears, there was a little coincident connected with that battle of the century which failed to appear in the interestin' reports of it. That's because the newspaper guys didn't know nothin' about it. I do! Like the color in a two-buck shirt, it's bound to come out eventually, so why not now?

After we come back to Gotham from the noted Catskill Mountains Kid Roberts goes into a serious conference with me and Ptomaine Joe. The Kid was all business and laughs was conspicuous by their absence! Without wastin' no time on preliminaries, Kid Roberts says he's just the opposite to satisfied with the headway he's been makin' toward the world's championship. His last three bouts has been fought on the exterior of fight clubs and all he's got out of 'em was the exercise. Not so good!

There was still much moan in the Kid's matrimoany, too. Dolores is tourin' the State, campaignin' for a seat in the Senate. She stubbornly refused to give Kid Roberts a tumble till he checked out of the fight racket. This is somethin' the Kid won't do till he's built up a important bank roll and since his attempted comeback he's barely clicked off expenses. In other words, the boy's tired of wearin' straw hats in the winter time. He's gettin' nowheres and somethin '  must be done. That's the way the Kid put it up to me,

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Rh with what she has already done, the merest trifle, and so soon as we are all more comfortably settled…’ Thus her friends encouraged her. But, whether she accepted his invitation or not, civility demanded that she must at least reply to his poem. She knew that he would regard her cadences and handwriting very critically, expecting something hopelessly countrified and out-of-date. This made the framing of an answer all the more embarrassing. She chose a Chinese paper, very heavily scented. ‘Some fault there must be in the stem of this marsh-flower. Else it had not been left unheeded amid the miry meadows by the sea.’ Such was her poem. It was written in rather faint ink and Genji, as he eagerly scanned it, thought the hand lacking in force and decision. But there was breeding and distinction in it, more indeed than he had dared to look for; and on the whole he felt much relieved.

The next thing was to decide in what part of the house she was to live. In Murasaki’s southern wing there was not a room to spare. The Empress Akikonomu was obliged by her rank to live in considerable state. Etiquette forbade that she should ever appear without a numerous train of followers, and her suite had been designed to accommodate an almost indefinite number of gentlewomen. There was plenty of room for Tamakatsura here; but in such quarters she would tend to become lost amid the horde of Akikonomu’s gentlewomen, and to put her in such a place at all would indeed seem as though he expected her to assist in waiting upon the Empress. The only considerable free space in the house was the wing which he had built to contain his official papers. These had for the most part been handed over to Tō no Chūjō, and what was still left could easily be housed elsewhere. The advantage of those quarters was that Tamakatsura would here be the close neighbour of the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers, whose

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 addin' that unless I could show him some speed he'd haul off and try his hand at bein' his own manager!

The heavyweight crown still rested on the head of Mr. Bob Young. Bobbie was too proud to fight for less than $300,000 cash in advance, half the movin'-picture loot, the hot-dog concession at the arena, his own hand-picked referee, the bottlin' rights to the Pacific Ocean, or what have you? Young's argument was that he's entitled to these meager rewards, as he's the drawin' card, bein' champion. Accordin' to that figurin', the ex-Kaiser should be gave $10,000,000,000, as look at the mob he drawed to Europe a few years ago!

How the so ever, Bob Young didn't wish to swap smacks with us under no circumstances. Mr. Champion had already tasted the delights of goin' in there with Kid Roberts, and as the Kid had knocked him as stiff as a drum major's back, Bob wasn't exactly sold on the idea of takin' him on again.

At first the sport writers laughed off my account of that fracas in Mexico, but when I kept on bombardin' Young with challenges and Young kept on passin' us by for third-rate set-ups, them editors begin to get thoughtful. The clean-cut, handsome, hard-hittin' Kid's sensational career had always made him a great favorite with the best people in the world—the newspaper guys. Young's stallin' us off was makin' most of 'em figure that maybe there was a drop of truth in my claim that Kid Roberts had actually stopped the champion. Pretty soon they all printed my story—somethin' they had flatly refused to do before—and

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 trained deadly sarcastical typewriters on Young and his manager, Toledo Eddie Hicks.

This kind of pressure done the trick. No champion can afford to high-hat the sport writers, unless he's ready to get his name in "Who's Through!" The sport editors is the babies which makes them enormous purses a fact instead of a wish. They smoke up interest in the fights, the principals, and the promoters. They make a champ's dizzy demands sound reasonable and the contender look to have a chance. They control the biggest asset one individual fight or the entire game has, a thing worth hundreds of thousands a year and you can get it for nothin' if you're a right guy—publicity!

So Mr. Barberi Youngkowsky, otherwise known as Bob Young, heavyweight champion of the civilized world, agreed to risk his title in a fight with Mr. Kane Halliday, otherwise known as Kid Roberts.

Before comin' out in the papers with it, Toledo Eddie Hicks sent for me, requestin' the boon of a private interview. The two of us got together in his room at the Hotel Epathy. This time our deliberations was a quiet affair, with no hair mussed or the like. Toledo Eddie greeted me with a glad smile and stood by, still grinnin' whilst I tried the doors, searched the closets, and looked beneath the bed for possible undercover spectators. Not that I suspected Edward was not to be trusted—I was positive of it! When I fin'ly convinced myself that we was really alone and this bozo wasn't tryin' to put over a fast one, I sit down, back to the wall. Eddie then broke out cigars

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