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Ark. Dep't of Human Servs. v. Ahlborn

Federal Medicaid law requires participating States to “ascertain the legal liability of third parties to pay for [an individual benefits recipient's] care and services available under the [State's] plan,” 42 U.S.C. § 1396a(a)(25)(A); to “seek reimbursement for [medical] assistance to the extent of such legal liability,” § 1396a(a)(25)(B); to enact “laws under which, to the extent that payment has been made  for medical assistance for health care items or services furnished to an individual, the State is considered to have acquired the rights of such individual to payment by any other party for such health care items or services,” § 1396a(a)(25)(H); to “provide that, as a condition of [Medicaid] eligibility, the individual is required  (A) to assign the State any rights  to payment for medical care from any third party;  (B) to cooperate with the State  in obtaining [such] payments  and  (C)  in identifying, and providing information to assist the State in pursuing, any third party who may be liable,” § 1396k(a)(1). Finally, “any amount collected by the State under an assignment made” as described above “shall be retained by the State to reimburse it for [Medicaid] payments made on behalf of” the recipient. § 1396k(b). “[T]he remainder of such amount collected shall be paid” to the recipient. Ibid. Acting pursuant to its understanding of these provisions, Arkansas passed laws under which, when a state Medicaid recipient obtains a tort settlement following payment of medical costs on her behalf, a lien is automatically imposed on the settlement in an amount equal to Medicaid's costs. When that amount exceeds the portion of the settlement representing medical costs, satisfaction of the State's lien requires payment out of proceeds meant to compensate the recipient for damages distinct from medical costs, such as pain and suffering, lost wages, and loss of future earnings.

Following respondent Ahlborn's car accident with allegedly negligent third parties, petitioner Arkansas Department of Health and Human Services, then named Arkansas Department of Human Services (ADHS), determined that Ahlborn was eligible for Medicaid and paid providers $215,645.30 on her behalf. She filed a state-court suit against the alleged tortfeasors seeking damages for past medical costs and for [p269] other items including pain and suffering, loss of earnings and working time, and permanent impairment of her future earning ability. The case was settled out of court for $550,000, which was not allocated between categories of damages. ADHS did not participate or ask to participate in the settlement negotiations, and did not seek to reopen the judgment after the case was dismissed, but did intervene in the suit and assert a lien against the settlement proceeds for the full amount it had paid for Ahlborn's care. She filed this action in Federal District Court seeking a declaration that the State's lien violated federal law insofar as its satisfaction would require depletion of compensation for her injuries other than past medical expenses. The parties stipulated, inter alia, that the settlement amounted to approximately one-sixth of the reasonable value of Ahlborn's claim and that, if her construction of federal law was correct, ADHS would be entitled to only the portion of the settlement ($35,581.47) that constituted reimbursement for medical payments made. In granting ADHS summary judgment, the court held that under Arkansas law, which it concluded did not conflict with federal law, Ahlborn had assigned ADHS her right to recover the full amount of Medicaid's payments for her benefit. The Eighth Circuit reversed, holding that ADHS was entitled only to that portion of the settlement that represented payments for medical care.

Held: Federal Medicaid law does not authorize ADHS to assert a lien on Ahlborn's settlement in an amount exceeding $35,581.47, and the federal anti-lien provision affirmatively prohibits it from doing so. Arkansas' third-party liability provisions are unenforceable insofar as they compel a different conclusion. Pp. 280–292.

(a) Arkansas' statute finds no support in the federal third-party liability provisions. That ADHS cannot claim more than the portion of Ahlborn's settlement that represents medical expenses is suggested by § 1396k(a)(1)(A), which requires that Medicaid recipients, as a condition of eligibility, “assign the State any rights to payment for medical care from any third party” (emphasis added), not their rights to payment for, e.g., lost wages. The other statutory language ADHS relies on is not to the contrary, but reinforces the assignment provision's implicit limitation. First, statutory context shows that § 1396a(a)(25)(B)'s requirement that States “seek reimbursement for [medical] assistance to the extent of such legal liability" refers to “the legal liability of third parties to pay for care and services available under the plan,” § 1396a(a)(25)(A) (emphasis added). Here, because the tortfeasors accepted liability for only one-sixth of Ahlborn's overall damages, and ADHS has stipulated that only $35,581.47 of that sum represents compensation for medical expenses, the relevant “liability” extends no fur- [p270] than that amount. Second, § 1396a(a)(25)(H)'s requirement that the State enact laws giving it the right to recover from liable third parties “to the extent [it made] payment  for medical assistance for health care items or services furnished to an individual” does not limit the State's recovery only by the amount it paid out on the recipient's behalf, since the rest of the provision makes clear that the State must be assigned “the rights of [the recipient] to payment by any other party for such health care items or services.” (Emphasis added.) Finally, § 1396k(b)'s requirement that, where the State actively pursues recovery from the third party, Medicaid be reimbursed fully from “any amount collected by the State under an assignment” before “the remainder of such amount collected” is remitted to the recipient does not show that the State must be paid in full from any settlement. Rather, because the State's assigned rights extend only to recovery of medical payments, what § 1396k(b) requires is that the State be paid first out of any damages for medical care before the recipient can recover any of her own medical costs. Pp. 280–282.

(b) Arkansas' statute squarely conflicts with the federal Medicaid law's anti-lien provision, § 1396p(a)(1), which prohibits States from imposing liens “against the property of any individual prior to his death on account of medical assistance paid on his behalf under the State plan.” Even if the State's lien is assumed to be consistent with federal law insofar as it encumbers proceeds designated as medical payments, the anti-lien provision precludes attachment or encumbrance of the remainder of the settlement. ADHS' attempt to avoid the anti-lien provision by characterizing the settlement proceeds as not Ahlborn's “property,” but as the State's, fails for two reasons. First, because the settlement is not “received from a third party,” as required by the state statute, until Ahlborn's chose in action has been reduced to proceeds in her possession, the assertion that any of the proceeds belonged to the State all along lacks merit. Second, the State's argument that Ahlborn lost her property rights in the proceeds the instant she applied for medical assistance is inconsistent with the creation of a statutory lien on those proceeds: ADHS would not need a lien on its own property. Pp. 283–286.

(c) The Court rejects as unpersuasive ADHS' and the United States' arguments that a rule permitting a lien on more than medical damages ought to apply here either because Ahlborn breached her duty to “cooperate” with ADHS or because there is an inherent danger of manipulation in cases where the parties to a tort case settle without judicial oversight or input from the State. As § 1396k(a)(1)(C) demonstrates, the duty to cooperate arises principally, if not exclusively, in proceedings initiated by the State to recover from third parties. In any event, the [p271] aspersions cast upon Ahlborn are entirely unsupported; all the record reveals is that ADHS neither asked to be nor was involved in the settlement negotiations. Whatever the bounds of the duty to cooperate, there is no evidence that it was breached here. Although more colorable, the alternative argument that a rule of full reimbursement is needed generally to avoid the risk of settlement manipulation also fails. The risk that parties to a tort suit will allocate away the State's interest can be avoided either by obtaining the State's advance agreement to an allocation or, if necessary, by submitting the matter to a court for decision. Pp. 287–288.

(d) Also rejected is ADHS' contention that the Eighth Circuit accorded insufficient weight to two decisions by the Departmental Appeals Board (Board) of the federal Department of Health and Human Services (HHS) rejecting appeals by two States from denial of reimbursement for costs they paid on behalf of Medicaid recipients who had settled tort claims. Although HHS generally has broad regulatory authority in the Medicaid area, the Court declines to treat the Board's reasoning in those cases as controlling because they address a different question from the one posed here, make no mention of the anti-lien provision, and rest on a questionable construction of the federal third-party liability provisions. Pp. 289–292.

397 F.3d 620, affirmed.

STEVENS, J., delivered the opinion for a unanimous Court.

Lori Freno, Assistant Attorney General of Arkansas, argued the cause for petitioners. With her on the briefs was Mike Beebe, Attorney General.

Patricia A. Millett argued the cause for the United States as amicus curiae urging reversal. With her on the brief were Solicitor General Clement, Assistant Attorney General Keisler, Deputy Solicitor General Kneedler, William Kanter, and Anne Murphy.

H. David Blair argued the cause for respondent. With him on the brief was Phillip Farris.

 * A brief of amici curiae urging reversal was filed for the State of Washington et al. by Rob McKenna, Attorney General of Washington, William L. Williams, Senior Assistant Attorney General, and Kimberly D. Frinell, Assistant Attorney General, and by the Attorneys General for their respective jurisdictions as follows: David W. Márquez of Alaska, Terry God- [p272] dard of Arizona, John W. Suthers of Colorado, Richard Blumenthal of Connecticut, Robert J. Spagnoletti of the District of Columbia, Thurbert E. Baker of Georgia, Mark J. Bennett of Hawaii, Lawrence G. Wasden of Idaho, Lisa Madigan of Illinois, Phill Kline of Kansas, Gregory D. Stumbo of Kentucky, G. Steven Rowe of Maine, J. Joseph Curran, Jr., of Maryland, Thomas F. Reilly of Massachusetts, Michael A. Cox of Michigan, Jeremiah W. (Jay) Nixon of Missouri, Mike McGrath of Montana, Kelly A. Ayotte of New Hampshire, Peter C. Harvey of New Jersey, Eliot Spitzer of New York, Wayne Stenehjem of North Dakota, Jim Petro of Ohio, Hardy Myers of Oregon, Patrick Lynch of Rhode Island, Henry McMaster of South Carolina, Lawrence E. Long of South Dakota, Mark L. Shurtleff of Utah, Peggy A. Lautenschlager of Wisconsin, and Patrick J. Crank of Wyoming.

Louis M. Bograd, Ned Miltenberg, and Kenneth M. Suggs filed a brief for the Association of Trial Lawyers of America as amicus curiae urging affirmance.

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writer named Plautus which used to cover the fights in the good old days of 254 B. C., or about the time Harry Wills first begin challengin' Jack Dempsey, once made the followin' remark:

From that radical statement it's no trouble to see that our hero never heard of the automatic timer, with which many prize rings in this popular year is equipped. In spite of its intricate soundin' name, gentle reader, the automatic timer is nothin' more than a simple electric gadget attached to the bell, which without human interference rings Mr. Bell at the end of the regulation three minutes of assault and battery and also at the end of the one minute's merciful rest allowed the victim. The main charms of this kind of a gong is that it never varies a split second in announcin' the beginnin' and end of each round—a attraction sometimes found lackin' in human timekeep-

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

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 ers either through excitement, inexperience, burn watches or the deliberate intent to favor one or the other of the boxers.

The heavyweight championship of the world once hung in the balance on the ringin' of the bell slightly before it was due. Sounds interestin', hey? Well, it is! Listen:

As Kid Roberts had now mowed down all the other contenders and the public was clamorin' for Bob Young to do his stuff, there was nothin' for the champ to do but give Kid Roberts a chance. That's what he done—a big-hearted act that baby will regret to his dyin' day.

Whilst I'm busy with the signin' of the articles and exchangin' daily horrible insults with Toledo Eddie Hicks, Kid Roberts was makin' a game attempt to win a fight of far more importance to him than the comin' brawl with Bob Young. This bout was carded to be fought in the dear old divorce courts and his opponent was no less than his beautiful but kind of infrequent wife, Dolores. The Kid was tryin' to get her to quit divorcin' him till he had his chance to make good. She'd dove head first into politics when they split and had only just hauled off and won the nomination for state senator.

Well, the night before Kid Roberts was to start conditionin' for Mons. Young, we bound to a theatre for a few much needed laughs previous to takin' up the dull, monotonous trainin' grind. My idea was that a snappy show would push the Kid's mind off his muddled domestical affairs, but that thought turned out

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 to be a fearful flop! We no more than park in our seats after makin' enemies of the customers which had to get up to let us pass, when Kid Roberts pegs his wife in a box with some friends of all sexes. At about the same minute, she seen him. The glance which passed between 'em only lasted a undersized moment, but it told 'em both as much as a hour's conversation would. It told me somethin', too—to the viz, that in spite of the fact they was separated, there was still a flock of love left on both sides. That odd coincidence highly alarmed me and don't think it didn't! It wasn't that I wished to keep distance betweer Kid Roberts and his lovely bride, but I was afraid that if they went to work and treated themselves to a tête-à-tête right then it might result in the heart-sick Kid postponin' or even callin' off his fight with Young. I was almost positive that was what Dolores would ask for and I was by no means certain that this time Kid Roberts wouldn't give her service. He hadn't seen her for quite the while, he was maniacal about her and lately he had showed more signs than usual of the fearful strain he was under at the thoughts of losin' her forever and a day. Dolores was a pulse-quickener of the first water and Kid Roberts was human—for once he might do anything she asked him, with few blamin' him.

I figured my worst fears was realized when Dolores sends the Kid a note durin' intermission, to the effects that if he had any curiosity to view her at close range he could appease that curiosity after the show. Well, Kid Roberts would willin'ly of shot all the actors if

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 that little prank would of brought this frolic to a quick close and he fidgeted in his seat like a inmate of a kindergarten. He couldn't of enjoyed the play no less had it been in the Siamese language and the start of the last act was the signal for him to blow to the back of the theatre so's to be the first one to hit the great outdoors when the curtain come down.

The next time I seen him was three in the a. m. at our inn and he wasn't fit to be at large, no foolin'! No unexperienced young wife ever sit up anxiously waitin' for a wanderin' bitter-half like I was waitin' for the return of Kid Roberts and his set, white face was just a mirror of what had happened. It was no different than a baker's dozen times before—peace conferences between the Kid and Dolores was about as successful as they'd be between puss and little mousie. At first he was as untalkative as our mutual friend, Mr. Oyster, but he had to get matters off his chest to somebody and as I'm by all means somebody, why, he soon give me a punch-by-punch account of the battle.

Kid Roberts had dashed madly up to the big marble temple on Fifth Avenue where his wife was gamely tryin' to make the best of a million-dollar income with her father. The Kid's first imitation was a attempt to fold her in his manly arms, but the fair Dolores had different plans and cleverly ducked the clinch. Before anything as refreshin' as that could happen, Kid Roberts had to pass a few simple tests of husbandly devotion. The Kid was willin', but test number one ruined everything! Like I'd figured, Dolores demand-

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 ed that Kid Roberts keep his gloves off Bob Young, forget about the world's championship and quit the ring immediately. In return for his slight accommodation on the Kid's part she'd cancel her divorce suit and take up the exactin' duties of bein' his wife where she left off before. Otherwise, no game!

This terrific swing to the heart from the only one which could ever hurt him there staggered the Kid, but for awhile he kept his head. For the 8954th time, he carefully explained that he couldn't quit till he'd won the title, now practically within his grasp, and then defended it for a huge purse which would put him on his feet financially. That's what he went back tc the game for, why resign when he's on the verge of winnin' the heights? All this was so much applesauce to Dolores. What she called the Kid's "stubborness" burnt her up and she wouldn't listen to reason. The hot-headed Kid then took a turn at bein' sore himself. He credits her with bein' selfish and tells her the only reason she wants him outside the ropes is because she's afraid his bein' a scrapper will hurt her chances of winnin' a seat in the state senate. Dolores calls that a wonderful guess on his part and their farewell was as long drawn out and clingin' as the farewell of a bullet to the barrel of a gun!

And I took the Kid to the theatre that night to get his wife off his mind. For cryin' out loud!

Well, anyways, the followin' day the Kid's headquarters is removed to the gym where my athalete is to do most of his trainin' for the rumpus with Bob Young. Amongst the bevy of nose-bustin' talent whose

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 pleasant duties was to lead their chins to the Kid's mighty right till Dame Nature balked 'em from takin' any more punishment, was Ptomaine Joe. In three starts under my disgusted management, Ptomaine had been smacked for a loop exactly three times, but if you think that in any way disturbed this monkey's peace of mind you're crazy. Bein' knocked out thrice in a trio of bouts would of made even a half-wit a bit tired of boxin', but it only seemed to increase Ptomaine's weird longin' for the game. He never let up pesterin' me to get him another quarrel till one day in the gym I throwed four iron dumb-bells at him in pure desperation. I missed him each time, a feat nobody else had ever been able to do in a ring with him.

"Careful, Joe!" says Kid Roberts to me, frownin'. "If you'd struck him with one of those you'd have done a lot of damage!"

"I know I would," I says, "but I'd of paid for them dumb-bells with a smile, if I'd been lucky enough to of hit that big banana with 'em!"

Not the faintest particle upset over the narrow escape he'd just had from makin' me a murderer, Ptomaine picks up the dumb-bells and grins at me pleasantly.

"Better luck next time!" says this typical case of insanity. "You got to get a certain grip on these babies to throw 'em properly. At that, I figured you'd hit me with one of 'em! You should of steadied and took aim, what I mean. Listen—when do I fight again?"

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 "The minute the next draft comes along!" I says, promptly.

"I don't crave the army," says Ptomaine, "I wish to fuss around in a ring."

"You got a swell chance, clown!" I says. "They wouldn't let you in a fight club no more if you was on the boxin' commission, Why, the sport writers is callin' you the Divin' Venus!"

At ain't goin' to make me break out in tears," says Ptomaine, scornfully. "Them guys is just sore, 'at's all!"

"Sore at what?" I ask him, turnin' on a sneer.

"Sore at my habit of fallin' on top of 'em when I get knocked through the ropes," says Ptomaine. "As if a man can be choosey about spots to land in at a time like 'at!"

By this time, the other inmates of the gym which has been standin' around listenin' is in convulsions. Even Kid Roberts' worry-lined face has relaxed a bit, provin' that as a entertainer Ptomaine had few equals and prob'ly was worth carryin' with the camp for that reason alone, like the Kid claims. But this mackerel wasn't satisfied with just bein' a circus around the gym—you couldn't keep him out of the ring with a injunction.

A few days later, Ptomaine comes to me with a brand new argument. He's as serious as a four-alarm fire in Wall Street.

"Listen here," he says, "I been studyin' things over and I'm fin'ly convinced 'at I got no more chance of bein' a champion than I got of bein' Queen of China

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 —even less! As the matter of fact, I got quite the few doubts as to whether I'll ever win a fight in a ring in my life!"

"That's the first intelligent remark you ever made in your entire career!" I says, heartily, "And there's nobody more tickled than me to hear that you're through with the glove racket for all eternity!"

"Who says anything about bein' through with the glove racket?" he asks, indignantly, "Don't be silly! I'll be in there tryin' as long as I can dig up another guy to go in there with me. What I mean is I'm through with the idea 'at I'm a world beater. I know I'm never goin' to set the lake ablaze with the way I win fights, but what I'm going to do now is dumfound Europe with the way I lose 'em!"

"What the Kansas City are you talkin' about?" I ask him, as astonished as you are.

"You're just like a baby" hebaby," he [sic] says, "Even the simplest things has got to be carefully explained to you! I'm goin' out and get myself a reputation as the gamest loser which ever laid blinkin' up at a countin' referee. I'm goin' to be known as a boy which can take more beatin' than any other scrapper in the wide, wide world! I won't quit, not even if the timekeeper steps in and hits me over the head with the bell. They won't be nothin '  can stop me till I'm just a gory wreck and even then it'll take the militia to end the bout. Now go and get me some good, tough, murderous puncher which can bring out my hidden gameness and I'll show you the way a fight should be lost!"

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 There's my entry for the cuckoo championship of the globe!

As usual, I give in to Ptomaine's pleadin's after a week of it had me a set-up for the delirium tremens ward. I got him Cyclone McEinstein for one of the preliminaries to the Kid Roberts-Bob Young championship battle. I'll tell you later what Ptomaine done with this lifetime chance. There's some important matters to be discussed right now.

The gym where Kid Roberts was trainin' in was operated by a gent named Charley Mack which was the proud owner of a cauliflower ear and a daughter called Elizabeth, or Beth for short. This young representative of a sex I predict a great success for was as pretty to look at as the Kid's straight left and she was likewise a inveterate boxin' fan. Beth come by her regard for fisticuffs honestly, as her dear old father was a very tasty middleweight in his day and was said to have once got a draw with Bob Fitzsimmons—at checkers. Well, Beth spent a great deal of her time around the gym watchin' the various leather pushers readyin' themselves to get their lips puffed and after Kid Roberts arrived on the scene, why, she was as much of a daily visitor as sunset. She seemed to know all about the struggles of the handsome, college-bred Kid and anybody which couldn't read admiration for him in her eyes couldn't read the mornin' paper, either. I don't think Kid Roberts knew whether Beth was hangin' around the gym or hangin' around Japan. His mind was on two things only—the world's championship and his balky wife! So with his lack

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 of interest in the girl and the fact that her old man told me she was the same as engaged to Frankie Nolan, one of the Kid's sparrin' partners, I didn't figure her no menace. And she wasn't—no more than a epidemic of smallpox is!

Ptomaine Joe tumbled right in love with Beth the instant he seen her, but as usual with the girls this mistake favors with his kind attentions, Beth wouldn't even take the trouble to insult him, In a frantic effort to get some notice from her, Ptomaine went through the pork and beaners in the trainin' quarters like a bullet goes through a cigar box! In fact, the only two boys he didn't have on the floor at one time or another was Frankie Nolan and Kid Roberts himself. Havin' saw Ptomaine do that kind of unofficial damage before and then go into a ring and have his ears beat off, this failed to get me unduly excited. As for Beth, well, if she was thrilled at this cave man's ferocity she was certainly a marvel at the art of hidin' your emotions!

How the so ever, our young charmer soon appeared steamed at her failure to panic Kid Roberts, when all the other males in the gym was struttin' their stuff for her. Naturally, the Kid's indifference only got Beth the more interested, and, another thing, Kid Roberts was what you might call big game for any girl to bag. So throwin' all pretence to the winds, this damsel sets about the woman's-sized task of bringin' Kid Roberts to her feet. Beth had plenty tricks and she tried 'em all, but this time the Kid was girl-proof! Far from bein' delighted with attentions which would of drove the average guy hysterical with joy, Kid

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 Roberts was much annoyed by the everlastin' presence of Beth around the gym and he simply ruined her when he point-blankly asked her one day to take the air. The Kid gently told the furious Beth that a prize fighter's trainin' quarters was no place for a lady, even if her old man did run the joint. Kid Roberts was triple polite about this delicate matter, selectin' his words like a veteran housewife selects chops, but the look the flamin'-faced Beth give him sent a slight chill up my spine.

"The great big stiff!" says Beth to me, courteously, as the Kid walked away. "He hates himself, don't he? I hope Bob Young beats the life out of him. I think Frankie Nolan could do it right now!"

"You do, hey?" I says, curlin' my lip, "Well, Frankie better not get thinkin' that way or the Kid will sure bruise him!"

"He won't do any such thing!" she says, scornfully waggin' her little head. "Frankie could whip Kid Roberts any time he wanted to—he's been holdin' back in the trainin' bouts here!"

"Did Frankie tell you he wasn't tryin' against the Kid?" I ask her, grinnin'.

"No," she says, after a minute, "but I've seen Frankie fight lots of times and he doesn't fight in the ring the way he does here!"

"I noticed that myself," I says, still grinnin', "There is quite a difference in the way Frankie boxes in the ring and the way he boxes in a gym. In a gym, for the example, he manages to keep off the floor, whilst in the ring"

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 But Beth was gone, flingin' me a enraged remark which she never picked up in no young ladies' finishin' school. I wish I had let her alone, I do for a fact! I should never of kidded her about Frankie Nolan. She liked Frankie and she sure made me pay for my laugh!

Well, Beth went right to her father and demanded that she be allowed to come and go in the gym whenever she wanted to, but Charley Mack was gettin' well paid for helpin' condition Kid Roberts and if the Kid won back the title Charles figured he had a chance to become a regular member of our staff. Charles listened patiently to Beth's angry chatter and then coldly told his little daughter to take the air.

The followin' day, Kid Roberts notes with pleasure that Beth is numbered amongst the missin'.

"I didn't want to be rude to the girl," he says to me, "but, honestly, her presence around here simply threw me off my stride. I don't mind posing in ring togs for the lady reporters, but to walk around half-naked all day before a woman—well—eh—I'm certainly glad she's gone!"

"I wish you wasn't so bashful," I says, gloomily. "That Jane is good and sore because you put her out. She'll frame somethin' on you as sure as you're a foot high. You know the old sayin', 'Hell has no fury like a woman scorned'!"

Kid Roberts smiles and slaps me on the back.

"You've been going to the movies too often, Joe," he says. "What on earth could that girl possibly do to harm me?"

"I don't know," I admit. "But she' do somethin',

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 that's a cinch! And as far as the movies is concerned, I've heard of things happenin' in everyday life which would make a movie thriller look like Sunday on the farm!"

"For instance?" asks the Kid.

"Them trips which Sinbad the Sailor took," I says, "or that little voyage of Robinson Crusoe, or"

"Why, you idiot," butts in the Kid, "those things never actually happened! They are merely imaginative"

"Listen," I says. "Don't try to kid me. I got the best proof in the world that them things happened!"

"Well, that's certainly interesting indeed!" says the Kid, tryin' to be sarcastical. "What proof have you?"

"I can show you the books!" I says. "Good enough?"

"Ample!" says Kid Roberts, laughin'. "And just as convincing as your belief that Miss Mack has designs on my health, which, of course, is all bosh!"

With that he begins to punch the bag and leaves me to my own resources.

Speakin' of bosh, I'll show you how much bosh my hunch was. Beth Mack done just two little things to Kid Roberts. Each of 'em nearly cost him the title. Allow me to present number one.

Frankie Nolan, Beth's heavy boy friend, was simply a good, tough heavy of no particular class, but a pip of a sparrin' partner mainly through his ability to take it. Frankie was no master boxer, but he'd proved a stumbfin' block for many a ambitious corner who'd punch his own heart out tryin' to stop Frankie only to quit tryin' the impossible and take one on the chin.

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 He was no different than a hundred others which has as much chance to be champion as I got to be president, yet can go in there and give a good account of themselves, clickin' off a occasional knockout, till years of repeated batterin' sends 'em to the ash can—generally cuckoo from the punchin' about the head.

Well, a guy of Frankie's type, stolid and colorless, seldom gets mad in the ring or out of it. Fightin' to him is a business and he goes about it with no more heat than a carpenter measures off a plank of wood. After twenty rounds, maybe, of gorey fightin' durin' which both him and his opponent has been many times on the verge of a knockout, he'd just as soon sit down to dinner with the other jobbie after the brawl. What I mean is that it takes a lot to stir them babies up—but then to Frankie Nolan, Beth Mack was a lot!

The first tip-off I got that Beth had built up Frankie to go after Kid Roberts was when he changed practically overnight from a good-natured, willin' boy to a surly, mumblin', scowlin' gorilla. Then he commenced gettin' off to one side of the gym and shadow boxin', skippin' rope, roughin' around the heavy sand bag and workin' the pulley weights. You'd think this guy was trainin' for a scrap instead of Kid Roberts and everybody around the place got hep and made some crack about it. When Frankie went into the trainin' ring with the Kid he was no longer just a choppin' block. He sparred carefully, that is carefully for a big chump like he was, and when he let one go he put all he had on it. He'd start sudden flurries and rush the surprised Kid Roberts all over the ring, swingin' viciously

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 with both gloves. As a matter of fact, in a couple of days the bouts between Kid Roberts and Frankie Nolan had developed into real fights whilst I let 'em last. Mr. Frankie was tryin' nobly all the time and I knew it when I cut the rounds short a minute or more to prevent the Kid from maybe gettin' butted over the eye by this big, flounderin' hulk which was grimly bent on knockin' him cold!

Instead of gettin' Kid Roberts peeved, this sudden dangerous change in Frankie Nolan actually pleased him. After each setto, he'd slap the glowerin' Francis heartily on the back, tellin' him he was improvin' daily and givin' him the best workouts of anybody in the camp. Why shouldn't Frankie be givin' Kid Roberts the best workouts, when Frankie was tryin' his darndest to put the Kid away?

Four days before Kid stepped into the ring with Bob Young for the world's heavyweight championship, it happened! The Kid had boxed two fast rounds each with Ptomaine Joe, Bud Johnson, a big dinge, and K. O. Stone, a good welterweight we used to put a edge on the Kid's speed. Frankie Nolan was saved for last as usual—always the stiffest workout of the day. I looked around for Frankie impatiently, not wantin' the Kid to cool off between these bouts, and there's Frankie industriously workin' the pulley weights against the wall on the other side of the gym. I run over to him.

"C'mon, c'mon, Big Boy!" I says, "Get in there with the Kid and do your stuff. What's the idea of the physical culture?"

"If you don't like it, pay me off!" snarls Frankie,

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 droppin' the pulleys, "I don't have to jump when you snap your fingers. Talk that way to them bums around here—not to me!"

I let that pass.

"Readyin' for a fight yourself?" I asks, whilst'm lacin' on his gloves.

"None of your damned business!" says Frankie, lookin' up murderously at Kid Roberts, which is skippin' rope in the ring to keep warm. I tied the laces on the gloves and pulled out my watch.

"Don't get too giddy in there to-day, Frankie," I says quietly in his ear, "I'm wise to you and so's Kid Roberts. I'm only tryin' to save you a lot of grief! The Kid's been under wraps with you and you know it. He ain't never yet let you have it—that's why you been thinkin' you're good. You start any punches lower than the belt and you'll go out of here with a broken jaw!"

Frankie's answer is to kick over the stool and walk out to the center of the ring, waitin' for the bell. I rung it.

"Hello, Frankie!" says Kid Roberts, pleasantly, and stuck out his glove to shake.

That was the end of all conversation till a minute and a half later, at which point Kid Roberts made his next remark. It was a pantin', "Do you suppose he suddenly went insane?"

I suppose Frankie did, only not suddenly—this big mock turtle had been that way for days! Ignorin' the Kid's proffered handshake, Frankie let a left go from somewheres near his ankle, aimin' it for the Kid's

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 jaw. Had it been delivered to where it was addressed it would undoubtlessly have put Kid Roberts under ether, for Francis could hit! But somethin' in this guy's eye must have warned the Kid, and though he was caught with his hands down he partially ducked the, blow, takin' it high on the side of his head instead of the chin. The force of the punch throwed Kid Roberts into the ropes and whilst the startled gang in the gym is still yellin', Frankie drove a fearful right to the face, cuttin' a nasty gash over the Kid's eye. And in four days Kid Roberts was to step into a ring with the world's champion!

Well, I don't think there will ever be another time in my life when I'll wish for a shotgun like I did right then. Should I of had one about me, I would positively of let Frankie Nolan have both barrels! The blood is streamin' down Kid Roberts' face and Frankie is swingin' wildly at his head with both gloves. Though badly dazed, the Kid is ring general enough to cover up and back pedal till he finds out what it's all about. I want to get to work on the Kid's damaged eye as quick as possible and I yell my head off hollerin' "Time!" Frankie paid me the same attention I'd get from a English butler. Still flailin' madly away with both hands, he shifts his attack to the Kid's body and then Kid Roberts come out of it! He shook his head and the gore from his eye spattered the awe-stricken bunch around the ring. I told 'em to get ready to climb inside the ropes with me when I give the word and these orders is barely out of my mouth when Kid Roberts smashes Frankie with a short left hook which

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 sent Frankie sprawlin' to his knees. As tough as a rhino, Frankie jumps up to be met with a left and right which put him down again on all fours. I screamed to the excited handlers to climb in with me and we're scramblin' through the ropes when Francis arises again. He looked to be out on his feet and Kid Roberts stood hesitatin', evidently not wantin' to smack him no more. One of the handlers grabbed at Frankie and Frank give him a shove which sent him half ways across the ring. Then Frankie suddenly leaped towards the Kid, swingin' hard and low with his left as he jumped. A dozen guys rushed him, but they was too late. The punch took Kid Roberts squarely below the belt—a deliberate, nasty, vicious foul which Frankie hoped would cripple him! The Kid's face went grey and twisted with agony, but he didn't even give Frankie the satisfaction of goin' down writhin', like nine out of nine would of done from that kind of a sock. Instead, Kid Roberts stepped forward and uppercut this dumfounded hound with a right which nearly tore Frankie's useless head off his shoulders and lifted him inches from the floor. When Francis dropped, he fell like they do with heart failure! He was out for fifteen minutes and come to in a alley back of the gym, where the enraged Ptomaine Joe throwed him on his way to a doctor for the Kid.

Well, youth, health and determination is a hard combination to beat! In spite of the gash over the eye and Frankie Nolan's foul punch, which didn't turn out as bad as we expected, Kid Roberts was ready to put up the fight of his life when the night of the world's

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 championship battle with Bob Young rolled around. Somehow or other, the story of that fracas in the gym had leaked out as them things will and the newspapers printed the interestin' fact that Kid Roberts was goin' into the mill with one eye badly cut in trainin'. None of the papers knew which eye it was and to keep Bob Young from makin' the sore optic a continual target, I doped out a scheme to befuddle him. I carefully went over the Kid's injured eye with theatrical grease paint, coverin' up the stitches and the bluish tinge of the skin. Then I taped a plaster over the good eye and we fooled the world!

The paid attendance figures for the Kid Roberts-Bob Young fight is on the books as 65,854, but when I gazed at the ocean of faces under the are lights as we milled our way into the arena with the aid of some husky coppers, I would of swore it was 65,000,000! We got to pass the bleachers on the ways to the dressin' rooms and the eager mob quickly spots Kid Roberts, swingin' briskly along and towerin' over all of us but Ptomaine Joe. Boy, what a yell went up! Plenty shrilly excited female voices joined in the "Good luck, Kid!" "Knock him stiff, Roberts!" "To-night's the night, Big Fellow!", etc., etc. Kid Roberts grinned like a schoolboy and waved his hands to 'em. That tickled 'em silly and they stood up and cheered wildly till we passed out of sight into the dressin' rooms.

Twenty times that afternoon Kid Roberts had tried to get his wife on the phone, hopin' that maybe at the last minute she'd realize what this brawl meant to him

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 —to them both, for that matter—and at least wish him good luck. The best he got was central's favorite, "They don't answer!" He seemed to be broodin' heavy over that whilst he laid on the table and got his final rub and oilin'. Ptomaine Joe, dated up with Cyclone McEinstein, is all set to start for the abattoir and already showin' his usual symptoms of stage fright. The roar of the crowd outside watchin' one of the preliminaries was comin' to us like the steady drone of a cloudburst on a tin roof and Ptomaine shivered like that's what it was and he had to go out in it nude!

Although I argued myself black in the pan against leavin' him, Kid Roberts insisted on me goin' behind Ptomaine for his bout. I had competent handlers to send out with this baby, but the Kid, which wanted to see Ptomaine win a fight, says my moral support and coachin' might help him make the grade for once. Ptomaine added his own frantic entreaties and I fin'ly give in, I guess I must of had a soft spot in my heart for this brainless wonder at that!

When we stepped into the ring, the crowd give me a mild hand as Kid Roberts' manager. Ptomaine thinks the applause is for him and solemnly takes a bow, which causes the laughin' customers to give him the razzberry. That helped his nerves a lot, as he immediately proved by puttin' his foot in the bucket and upsettin' it when he sit down on his stool. More loud howls from the mob. I turned the serious Ptomaine over to his seconds and spent the next five minutes closely inspectin' the ring in which Kid Roberts would soon be fightin' for the world's championship, financial independence, and,

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 with that, his wife! I tested the padded canvas with experienced feet and it seemed O. K. Leanin' against the ropes, I thought 'em a bit too slack and mentioned it to one of the club officials standin' next to me in the ring. He promised it would be right for the championship bout—and then forgot all about it. Bob Young, though, will never forget them slack ropes!

It was whilst I'm tryin' the ropes that I first peg three people I'm somethin' more than slightly acquainted with. Two of 'em I'd of rather saw any place in the world than in ringside seats that night! They was Charley Mack, his dangerous daughter Beth and Frankie Nolan—parked perfect in the second row, right behind the timekeeper. Automatic bells ain't universally in use even now and in them days I doubt if there was a pair of 'em in the country. In this case, the bell was clamped to a post about ten feet above the timekeeper's head with a long rope hangin' down in easy reach for him to pull. You'll see plenty of them kind of gongs in fight clubs around the country to-day. They're all wrong! Automatic timers should be installed in every fight club in the world. When you finish this you'll know why!

Well, Charley Mack waves a friendly hand to me and Frankie Nolan gives me a kind of sheepish, ashamed look. He half rose in his seat and made as if to speak to me, but the glare I give him tied his tongue! I will say, though, that Frankie seemed thoroughly tamed and sorry for what he'd tried to do to Kid Roberts. But the one which interests me is Mack's Beth. If she was burnt up before when the Kid

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 wouldn't give her a tumble and chased her out of the trainin' quarters, what must she be now when on top of that Kid Roberts had slapped her sweetie, Frankie Nolan, for a gondola? For pure venom, rage, wickedness and hate I still got to see anything to equal the look that girl give me when I stared down into her eyes. I turned away quick, much chilled!

Whilst Ptomaine Joe and Cyclone McEinstein are listenin' to the referee's instructions, I'm worryin' myself sick. My fears ain't for Ptomaine—I knew he was goin' to get it—I was troubled about Kid Roberts. But then I think what can Beth possibly try to pull with that crowd watchin' every move? She ain't sittin' near enough to a corner to switch water bottles on the Kid or anything like that. She wouldn't dare have a gun, as this is real life and not no movie. She can't monkey with the lights—what the Omaha could she do? I figured the answer was nothin '  and impatiently cleared my mind of her. She fooled me by doin' the one thing I never thought of!

There's no use presentin' here a round by round description of the Ptomaine Joe-Cyclone McEinstein catastrophe, stopped by the charitable referee in the fifth round to save Mons. McEinstein from goin' to the chair for murder. The details would be as tasty as the details of a day's work at the slaughter house. Up to the time the referee called a halt, McEinstein had hit Ptomaine with everything but the club's licence and hit him everywhere but in the instep: The Cyclone was all his name declared him to be—a aimless swinger whose wild blows often put the referee in serious dan-

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 ger, but no knocker-out. Ptomaine was also as wild as a citizen of Borneo, so I'll just let you imagine what a pair like that would look like in the ring. McEinstein knew nothin' at all about boxin', or just twice as much as Ptomaine did, and this superior knowledge of the game enabled the Cyclone to put Ptomaine on the floor either twenty-six or fifty-four times. But he couldn't put him out! Ptomaine was in there to stay and that's what he done till the referee, tired of runnin' for his life every time either of these tramps let go, pushed Ptomaine to his corner bleedin' like a cut artery and raised McEirstein's glove. The mob heartily booed the Cyclone for bein' unable to stop Ptomaine and cheered Ptomaine lustily for his gameness.

When Ptomaine realized that he'd been deprived of a chance to get punished some more he acted like a maniac.

"What's the idea of stoppin' the fight?" he pants through swollen lips, "I ain't hurt no more than you are—this guy can't hit!"

"Outside!" says the referee. "This boy would of broke your neck in another round! He already done everything else to you. You're all full of blood and I'm sick of lookin' at you!"

"Can you beat 'at?" says Ptomaine to me as I ease him onto his stool. "What a break I got. They give me a referee which is too faint-hearted to stand the sight of a little blood and on account of 'at he stops the fracas just when I'm takin' a interest in matters!"

As we start up the aisle the crowd gives Ptomaine

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 another cheer, the first time he ever heard that leavin' a ring in his life.

"Listen 'at 'em babies!" he says to me, grinnin' proudly. At's what you call a real send-off. I told you I had the right dope. To hell with tryin' to stop these guys, 'at's something I can't do—but don't I lose like nothing' younothin' you [sic] ever seen before?"

How would you like a guy like that around you all day?

Well, with the cheaper help through for the night, the great throng sits forward on the chairs in a fever of excitement, awaitin' the battle many of 'em had come hundreds of miles to see. In what bettin' there was around the ring, the champ and Kid Roberts was held at even money and take your pick—a bit unusual in a title fight—but in sentiment the big crowd was overwhelmin'ly for Kid Roberts, Perhaps every thrilled man and woman packed in that arena was familiar with the Kid's history and his sensational comeback in the ring and now when he stood at the threshold of winnin' the world's championship they was pullin' for him heart and soul! Even the boys which figured Young would surely take him cheered the Kid madly when we climbed through the ropes, ten minutes before the champ and his handlers come down the aisle to a thunderous roar of applause. The weights was announced as Kid Roberts 194½, Bob Young 197, and for once they was right.

There was a long delay before the fight got under way, caused by Toledo Eddie Hicks findin' fault with this and protestin' about that. Eddie objected to every-

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 thing but the purse he was gettin' for Young, $250,000—win, lose, draw or what have you? He made me re-tape the Kid's hands, lower his belt and about everything else he could think of to try and upset the Kid's nerves with the fussin' and waitin'. The officials come to my assistance and chased the grinnin' Eddie to the other corner about the time that the crowd, crazy with impatience, was all ready to rush the ring and lynch Edward. The men posed for the newspaper photographers, then got the referee's brief orders about breakin' from clinches, forbidden blows and the usual stuff which nobody pays the faintest attention to. The ring is cleared of everybody but Roberts and Young—the mob howls madly—the bell!

Followin' my instructions to the letter, Kid Roberts shot across the ring and clipped Young twice with a terrific left hook to the body before the champ was well out of his corner. The second punch landed flush on the heart and had enough behind it to make the champ buckle at the knees and dive into a clinch. Nobody outside the ropes in that howlin' bedlam was sittin' down now! Comin' out of the clinch, Young steadied and began pickin' at the Kid's plastered eye with a long left. His aim was good so he soon knocked the plaster off and I laughed myself silly at the puzzled look on the champ's face when the eye didn't bleed. My trick to protect the Kid's other glim, cut by Frankie Nolan, was workin' perfect! Kid Roberts was tryin' for a one-round knockout and kept carryin' the battle to Young. He rushed the champ repeatedly, landin' often with that wicked left hook to the body and fol-

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 lowin' it up with a right uppercut to the face. Young didn't care for this treatment at all and clinched at every chance, roughin' the Kid along the ropes till the crowd booed him to the echo. In one of these clinches, Young butted Kid Roberts and to show you what luck is, this time his head hits the Kid's sore eye and reopens the cut! The referee warned the champ if he lead with his head again he'd lose his title. Under a stream of orders from his corner, Young then changed his tactics and began to fight somethin' like a champion for a change. He jabbed his left hard to the Kid's fast closin' eye, but missed a right to the body. A second later he caught Kid Roberts squarely on the chin with a right hook and the Kid went back on his heels. He looked to be in a bad way and advice come from Young's handlers in a steady howl!

With victory in either glove, Young didn't seem to know what to do. He measured the reelin' Kid with a light left, whilst I prayed for the bell! Kid Roberts' fightin' instinct made him return the left with one of his own, which was short by a foot. "Clinch, Kid, get in there and hold on to him!" bawls the Kid's friends frantically. That was my request to him, too. Right at this point, Kid Roberts, badly hurt, called into play somethin' Bob Young didn't have—brains! He clinched and when Young roughed him off, Roberts begins to kid the champ about his hittin' powers and his inability to finish a man in distress. Young seemed to fear a trick of some kind and danced around hesitatin'ly. His admirers in the attendance bawled for him to finish it and finish it he could have at this minute with

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 one well-placed blow, for Kid Roberts was on Queer Street! Young's uncertainty cost him a one-round win—it allowed the Kid to recover and the champ's golden opportunity was gone. In half a minute Kid Roberts was borin' in again and just before the bell he shook Young up with two stiff rights to the wind. The champ walked to his corner lookin' very serious, whilst the Kid run over to me, laughin'.

Where ever fight fans get together you'll still find 'em talkin' about the second round of this fight. Thrill piled on thrill with a climax which must have removed ten years from the lives of the ones with weak hearts! With the sound of the gong still in the air, the men came together in mid-ring, each bent on makin' this frame the last. Young connected first with a left to the nose and cleverly blocked the Kid's counter for the body. The champ then landed hard to the face with a left and drove a terrible right to the stomach which upset Kid Roberts and also the mob. The Kid signalled to me that he was O. K., took a count of six, rose, shook his head to clear it and tore in with both gloves. A right and left to the wind made the champ give ground and lose some of his sudden confidence. Young tried two lefts for the face and both were blocked. He then swung his right hard to the stomach, but Kid Roberts partially blocked the blow and returned a left and right to the chin that bounced the champion off the ropes. The Kid avoided a clinch and cut the champ's lips with three left jabs. Young tushed like a maddened bull and from then on they fought like stevedores on a dock! After takin' four

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 straight rights to the head, Kid Roberts reached Young with a fearful right uppercut and then waded in intent on a knockout. He drove the champion across the ting with a furious barrage of rights and lefts which Young seemed unable to get away from. One of these punches dropped Young to his knees and brought the crowd up on their toes once more, a shriekin' like Indians. Without waitin' for a count, the champ arose groggily and found the ropes at his back. With thirty seconds to go, 65,000 people are cravin' for a knockout and they beseech Kid Roberts to deliver. Roberts had the goods! He smacked Young with a right to the jaw and Young went over backwards through them slack ropes, down on the hastily arisin' newspaper guys and telegraph operators!

I got my watch in my hand and my gaze is fastened on the timekeeper. The referee is at the ropes, leanin' over and countin' Young out. The champion is layin' across two upset chairs, just where he fell, dead to the world! The noise around the ring is deafenin' "One-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight—" At that point, the bell suddenly cuts off the referee's dronin' count and cheats Kid Roberts out of a two-round knockout.

I say cheats, because that round still had twelve seconds to go! Watchin' the timekeeper, I had saw what happened. Beth Mack, sittin' behind the official, had jumped up, grabbed the rope over the timekeeper's head and pulled the bell before anybody could stop her. I had forgot about her, but she hadn't forgot about us!

Well, the place is in a uproar and everybody seemed to lose their heads, the thing was so unexpected and

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 dumfoundin'. Beth's old man Charley looked for a minute like he was goin' to strike his daughter—Frankie Nolan seemed petrified with astonishment. A flock of cops rush down the aisle and whilst some of 'em hustles the now thoroughly scared Beth outside, the others keep back the crowd from climbin' into the ring. In the champion's corner they're workin' over him frantically. I'm in the ring with twenty other guys, hoarsely claimin' a foul. Kid Roberts is leanin' against the ropes bewilderedly, with Ptomaine Joe mechanically spongin' him off. The timekeeper is tryin' to explain matters, agreein' with me that the round was cut short twelve seconds and Young should of been counted out. Toledo Eddie Hicks insists that the fight go on, as the referee only counted up to eight on the champion. The newspaper guys mix in it—some with us and some with Young. The referee asks Kid Roberts if he wants to continue and the Kid says he does, tellin' me to shut up. The crowd, only a few of 'em knowin' what actually happened, hollers for action of some kind. Everybody's talkin' at once and we're gettin' nowheres, till the cool-headed promoter of the bout quickly takes charge. He sends the timekeeper back to his post, has the coppers clear the ring and orders the bell for round three.

It lasted just eighteen seconds and those of the patrons which was scurryin' to their seats with their backs to the ring didn't even see it! At the gong, Kid Roberts rushed from his corner like a express train and caught the unsteady Young with a sledgehammer left to the wind. Young bent almost double

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 and a right hook spilled him over backwards like the roof had fell on him. The count was a waste of time! At "seven" the champ's eyes opened and he blinked up at the blindin' lights goofily. "Eight!" roars the referee, his arm risin' and fallin' and Young got to one knee, slipped back again and laid prostrate on his stomach where he was at the fatal "ten!" Many thought Young didn't wish to get up. Well, who would, after bein' knocked cold twice in one night!

Forty-five minutes later we managed to shake off the ravin' fans in and about the ring and got to the dressin' rooms. Inside is two coppers and a little, red-headed, freckle-faced messenger boy. The admirin' cops rush to open the door, one of 'em gettin' so excited he took off his hat to the Kid. The messenger boy runs over and grabs at the Kid's bandaged hands.

"I knew you'd take 'at big stiff!" he hollers. "I win three bucks on you, Mister Roberts. I—Oh, hey, I got a letter for you. I been here a hour. I was supposed to slip it to you before you went in the ring to-night."

"Well, why didn't you?" asks the Kid, rippin' open the envelope. I seen he knew the handwritin' from the way his good eye sparkled.

The messenger glares at the coppers, which looks a bit sheepish.

"These fat-headed bulls wouldn't let me in!" he says. "They thought I was tryin' to crash the gate to see the fight!"

"Well, you delivered—beat it!" growls one of the coppers.

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 The kid turns to Roberts, which is readin' the letter.

"Hey, Mister Roberts, can't I stay here and go out when you do?" he begs. "They'll be a million guys outside to watch you come out andand they'll all see me with you and—"

Kid Roberts smiles and tells the boy to sit down on a stool.

"Laugh that off, you big boloneys!" says the messenger to the glowerin' coppers, "And—pay me!"

The bulls look at each other and dig, each tossin' a buck to the grinnin' messenger, which sticks his tongue out at 'em.

"Can you beat that little divvle?" says one of the cops. "He bet us both a dollar Kid Roberts would let him stay!"

Whilst Ptomaine's helpin' the Kid dress, I read the note which he handed over to me, after tearin' part of it off and puttin' that part carefully in his wallet. It was from his wife and what he showed me went somethin' like this:

I handed it back to him.

"That shows she's still for you," I says. "What will you do?"

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 "Get a million of my own!" he says, bangin' the table with his fist, "I'm world's champion again now—that's one objective gained. The next is money—"

"I can let you have the five bucks I win on you!" suddenly pipes up the messenger. "You can slip me out of your next fight. I'll take a chance on you, Champ!"

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amusin' discovery was made by no less than Lord Lytton—undoubtlessly after his jovial and talented lordship had tried to compose a oyster souffle or the like, all by himself. Lord Lytton become the plot of a tombstone, pro'bly as the result of indigestion, in the annum of 1891. By a odd coincidence, he was a poet by trade and where a poet gets a chance to learn anything about eatin' and cooks is past me! How the so ever, the statement that chefs is born life-savers is as true as a dairy-maid's heart—in a movie—and with your kind permission, I'll endeavor to prove it, if I can only keep you awake.

The chef I have selected for this typical exhibition of what can be done with a typewriter in the wrong hands, is Monsieur Ptomaine Joe. By a timely demonstration of the science of cookin', Ptomaine prob'ly saved the lives of me, Kid Roberts, the exceedin'ly pretty Angela Yerkes, and the exceedin'ly ugly skipper—of the good ship Scofflaw. There's all the ingredients

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 of a good story, hey? Well, hold everything and I'll see what I can do with 'em. Don't expect too much.

By knockin' Bob Young for a goal, Kid Roberts made good one of his ambitions, the heavyweight championship of the globe. The Kid's other modest desires; financial independence and the return of his balky bride Dolores, was still to be realized, but winnin' the title had brung him within eyesight of both. Bein' the Kid's pilot, I'm busy mappin' out a campaign and dickerin' for some quarrels which we figured would place him on Comfortable Boulevard within the year. Then my athalete was goin' to throw his gloves right into the ashcan and call it a day, as he'd faithfully promised his lovely wife. Dolores was all girl and any male would promise her anything, they would for a positive fact!

Well, speakin' of avocados, I found it far from child's play to line up for my champion a immediate bout which would bring home the bacon in box cars. I couldn't just send him out to fight in the streets, on the account that the quicker he got monetarily carefree, the quicker he could claim exemption from the hooks and jabs and talk his wife out of the divorce thing. He wanted to lose her like you want to lose your left lung and he gave me no peace, day or night! You see, on our ways up to the heavyweight crown—our second trip, as you might remember—we was so wild to get the title that we didn't haggle over pennies. The results was that some of our brawls paid little more than trainin' expenses and our cash on hand would certainly never cause Wall Street to tremble in

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 fear. Now, though, as rajah of the heavies, the Kid's in a position to write his own ticket for his next setto and bein' nobody's fool I set $250,000 as the lowest sum at which Kid Roberts would climb through the ropes and defend his championship. Bob Young got two hundred and fifty grand for losin' it to the Kid, but with us it was try and get it! I'll tell you why.

In gazin' over the mass of mugs which made up the heavyweight division at the time, neither the milk-fed sport writers or the hard-boiled promoters could see any one which figured to give Kid Roberts even a stiff workout, what I mean. The public knew that none of these boloneys belonged in the same ring with the champion and the fans certainly wasn't ripe to pay no famine prices for ringside seats to see him carry some ham for a boxin' lesson or knock him off with a punch. In his rush to the title, Kid Roberts had already disposed of the most promisin' contenders and as matters stood the boy had just about fought himself out of a job! Bob Young, the ex-champ, was keepin' people from sleepin' at nights howlin' for a return bout and we was wild with eagerness to give it to him, dut the Kid's three-round knockout of Mr. Young spoiled the former title-holder's chances of gettin' serious attention. As for the newer crop of heavies, they needed more experience before tacklin' Kid Roberts—in the unasked opinion of the self-confessed experts. I could of been deported for what I thought of them scissor-bills—they figured they was doin' us a favor by boostin' the Kid to the skies, but what they was really doin' was keepin' us broke!

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 So in that way the time dragged along with Kid Roberts a world's champion, but unable to do his stuff through lack of competition. As far as business was concerned, he was just like a salesman with a line of celluloid cuffs travellin' through Hades! A brace of weeks in vaudeville, a movie and two or three exhibition bouts brung in a few much needed thousands and then we found months of enforced idleness starin' us in the pan. No foolin', the panic was on!

One mornin', haggard and worn from a night full of everything but sleep, I bust into the Kid's room at the Broadway drum we're floppin' at. Ptomaine Joe's already there, givin' the champ his mornin' rub, which come right after the cold shower. Kid Roberts was feelin' pretty low. His handsome face is gloomy and broodin' and he greets me with a paltry nod. Bein' too high calibre to notice them things—which is why I remember it—I returned a brilliant smile.

"Kid," I says, "I've just had a rush of ideas to the brain, with the results that I got a wow of a scheme for us to click off heavy money, without even riskin' the title!"

"Perfect!" busts out Ptomaine, before Kid Roberts can answer, "I always did want to get into the bootleggin' game and"

"Be yourself, you ignorant monkey and don't talk out of turn!" I cut him off, with a touch of old world politeness. "Every time you open your mouth, a first-class idiot speaks!"

"Except the times," remarks Ptomaine, pensively.

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 "What d'ye mean except the times?" I asked him. "What times?"

"The times you're talkin', you imbecilical mackerel!" says Ptomaine.

Kid Roberts steps between us just in the nick of time to stave off a homicide.

"You two seem to be the only ones who are doing any fighting in this outfit!" says the Kid to me, kind of irritably. "Stop this nonsense and tell me your plan. Here I am, champion of the world, and the title isn't worth a dollar to me! If I don't make some money within the next"

"Just a minute, don't get all worked up, Kid," I butt in hurriedly, as Kid Roberts starts to nervously pace the floor, "I know just how you feel and I been breakin' my neck lookin' for a bout. Well, I got one! There's no one of us figurin' on a scrap any more this year—you know that. We got to wait till some new heavy looms up with enough stuff to make the sport writers build up a bout. In the meanwhile, what's to prevent us tourin' the country, takin' on all corners like John L. Sullivan and them guys used to do? Let's check out of this expensive slab and go places! We can carry three or four vaudeville acts and a jazz band. We'll offer five hundred bucks to any of these local gils which can stay four rounds with you. They'll fall over each other tryin' to get that dough and—Oh, I just know this is goin' to get over, I got a hunch. C'mon, Kid, let's pack up and start boundin' around a bit! Eventually, why not now?"

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 At's a great idea and jake with me, except we don't need no jazz band!" says Ptomaine. "I squeeze a vicious accordeon and if I can't learn you to operate a mouth organ in two weeks, then you're even sillier than you look! 'At takes care of the musical end of matters. Now, before we shove off, I got a few schemes of my own which is well nigh perfect! Number one calls for"

Kid Roberts is commencin' to get red-headed, prob'ly thinkin' the two of us is givin' him a run-around. He wheels angrily on this big, dizzy bozo and I managed to sell Ptomaine the idea of leavin' the room by the simple device of throwin' a chair at him. Then I soothed the Kid to the point of sittin' down on the bed and we talked over my proposition.

At first Kid Roberts brushed aside my praiseworthy suggestion like it was a annoyin' fly. He absotively refused to go around the highways and byways, exhibitin' himself "like a trained seal!" as he peevishly called it. But when I pointed out to him that we'd done this act once before and cleaned up, and that at least it was better to try it again than sit around busy doin' nothin', meetin' money only by hearsay, why, he give in. It took me a couple of weeks to round up a band which didn't want two hundred percent of our gate receipts and three vaudeville acts which didn't modestly desire the same. How the so ever, at last I got the outfit together and we set sail.

The show lined up somethin' like this; first the big band concert, then a snappy song and dance act, next a experienced monologist, followed by a speedy acro-

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 batic turn, then more music. At this point, Kid Roberts, resplendent in a costly dress suit and lookin' like the Duke of Typhoid, is introduced to the cheerin' multitude. The Kid tells a couple of fight stories and then switches to ring togs, whilst Mr. Band works some more. After runnin' through a few light trainin' exercises, includin' bag punchin' and a couple of fast rounds with Ptomaine Joe, the announcement is made that five hundred fish will be handed over with a smile to the man, woman or child which can stay four rounds with the world's heavyweight champion. The yokels would scramble up and try, Kid Roberts would mercifully give 'em the last lesson first, and, hoopla—we're on our ways to the next trap, prob'ly five or six grand to the good!

What could be sweeter?

Well, we hit the Coast without nobody havin' cullected the five-hundred-buck reward, though a two-hundred and twenty-five pounder entitled "Carbolic Acid" McSapp lasted three of the four rounds before a short inside right to the button changed all his plans and give him some much needed sleep. Barrin' nobody on earth, the Kid had stopped eighteen tomatoes in from one to two rounds—tough, willin' huskies, eager for the mere reputation of havin' boxed the world famous Kid Roberts and not at all sickened by the chance to grab off that five hundred. First-class, scientific publicity by your boy friend, aided by sympathetic and admirin' sport writers and the fact that Kid Roberts was a popular idol, drawed overflow crowds all along the trip which was somethin' more

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188 Village of Falling Flowers and prepared her for the arrival of her new neighbours: ‘A lady to whom I was much attached, being seized with a sudden melancholy, fled from the Court and soon afterwards ended her days in a remote country place. She left behind a daughter, of whom I could for years obtain no news. All this happened many years ago and this daughter is now of course a full-grown woman; but though I have been making enquiries ever since it was only quite recently (and in the most accidental way) that I at last obtained a clue. I at once determined to invite her to my palace, and I am going to give her quarters close to yours, in the unused Record Office. To one motherless child of mine you have already shown infinite kindness, and have not, I think, found the care of him unduly irksome. If you will do for this new-comer what you have been doing for Prince Yūgiri, I shall be deeply thankful to you. She has been brought up in very humble and rustic surroundings. In many ways she must be ill-prepared for the life which she will lead in such a place as this. I hope that you will instruct her…’ and he made many suggestions for Tamakatsura’s polite education. ‘I had no idea,’ the Lady replied, ‘that you had more than one daughter. However, I am extremely glad, if only for the Akashi child’s sake. I am sure she will be delighted to find that she has a sister….’ ‘The mother,’ said Genji, ‘was the most gentle and confiding creature I have ever encountered. This girl, Lady Tamakatsura, doubtless resembles her; and since you yourself are the easiest person to get on with…’ ‘I have so much time on my hands,’ she answered quickly. ‘Some one of my own sort to look after and advise a little…. That is just what I long for.’

Genji’s own servants and retainers had been told nothing save that a strange lady was shortly to arrive. ‘I wonder whom he has picked up this time?’ one of them said. ‘I

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 than a decided financial success. Outside of the laughs me and Ptomaine got watchin' some of these chumps tryin' to smack Kid Roberts down, the voyage was highly uneventful till we blew into Frisco with the fog one mornin'.

Then it was all different!

At the very first show, the front rows is filled with a fearful mob of rough and tough lookin' sailors. These guys wasn't the clean-cut, clean-livin', upstandin', square-shootin' gobs of the U. S. Navy—I only wished they had been! Wherever we run into them boys, we got along with 'em great, because Kid Roberts had boxed manys the exhibition for 'em and they thought the champ was the leopard's toothbrush. No—the hardy seafarers which awaited the Kid's appearance with noisy impatience that day was a lot of roughnecks off some tramp steamer, scum from the ends of the earth, what I mean!

Full of ferocious water-front hooch, they kept up a steady racket all durin' the vaudeville show. They kidded the acrobats, throwed pennies at the song and dance team and give the monologist the royal razzberry—only the nervous band managed to drown 'em out. To say I was worried is puttin' it much too mild; I seen nothin' ahead for us but a flock of grief!

When Kid Roberts is introduced, this choice collection of murderers out in front split the hearty applause of the rest of the audience with a volley of hoots and jeers.

"G'wan, ya big false alarm, you couldn't lick nobody!" "Yer a cheese champeen!" "I could whip

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 that blarsted Yank meself!" etc., etc., etc. That's only a few of the loud remarks in various dialects from these babies which went down to the sea in ships. There was much other comment I'd willin'ly tell you about—if I could only get somebody to print it! Kid Roberts, used to tight corners, smiled coolly and made no answer, but Ptomaine Joe ieaped to his side. Steamed up at the insults to his god, Ptomaine leaned his huge bulk down over the footlights and shook a fist like a ham into the faces of the howlin' sailors.

"Shut up, you bunch of yellah bums!" he roars, his homely pan red with rage. "I'll hop down there in a minute and knock the lot of you stiff!"

And he meant it, no foolin'!

This was right to the likin' of these gents and they greeted Ptomaine accordin'ly. The rest of the audience is standin' up to see what it's all about, with the ladies gettin' heavily alarmed. Along the aisles on the run comes the house attendants.

"All of youse come down!" bawls the sailors up to us on the stage.

"One of us'll do!" bellows Ptomaine back and befere we can stop him he's gone over the top.

Take it from me, the fun waxed fast and furious for the next few minutes and there was quite some excitement before the special cops helped us pull Ptomaine from the middle of the strugglin' mass of arms and legs in the orchestra pit. Ptomaine come out of it with a bleedin' ear and a busted thumb, but as three insensible sailors which had choosed him

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 could testify, he give a perfect account of himself whilst he was in action.

The theatre crew told the sailors to take the air and what the sailors told the theatre crew I'm forced to leave to your imagination. The peace-lovin' landsmen looked the jolly tars over and decided there was no use arguin' over a little matter like that and went back to their posts. Well, these able seamen had me good and leary. Honest to Turkey, I felt as weak as a moonshiner's alibi! Whilst our unhappy band's tryin' to appease 'em with "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep", I called Kid Roberts aside.

"Kid," I whisper, "let's forget about the offer to meet all corners, for if we don't, all corners is exactly what you'll have to meet, you will for a fact! Them mock-turtles out there will prob'ly rush the stage the minute I make the announcement and"

"No, Joe!" interrupted the Kid, firmly. "We'll omit no part of the act. The way to meet these issues is head on! Besides, those fellows are in a mood now to tear down the house if anything advertised is cut out. Undoubtedly, the only reason they are here at all is to see me box and if I don't, we're in for trouble!"

We was in for trouble anyways!

My offer of five hundred smackers to any human bein' which can keep erect for four rounds with the world's champion is no more than out of my shapely mouth, when there's a thunderin' roar from our little pals, the sailors. The Kid was right—that's what them guys had been waitin' for! A great big mass

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 of bone and muscle rears up from their midst and is swiftly boosted on the stage by his cheerin' mates. He was the burliest thing I ever seen in my life—broken-nosed, pock-marked, cabbage-eared, and a bath and shave was only two of the many things he needed badly. I asked him what his name was so's I could announce it and he snarlin'ly told me to go to Hades! Then, after a sneerin' look at the calmly smilin' Kid Roberts, the giant from the sea follows the glowerin' Ptomaine to the dressin' rooms.

I shivered—and it wasn't a bit cold.

"Get this fellow quick, Kid!" I says, very serious.

Kid Roberts answers nothin'; but he sure looked thoughtful.

The house was in a uproar when Mr. Sailor come out in ring togs, revealin' the hairy and bulgin'-muscled body of a gorilla—somethin' he greatly looked like to me. A half minute after the bell for the first round was long enough to disclose that the sailor's fightin' methods likewise resembled a gorilla's! Whilst his shipmates kept up a incessant din of bawlin' encouragement for their man and jeers for Kid Roberts, this bucko flailed away madly with both hands, drivin' the nimbly duckin' Kid before him. Science, rules and fair play was evidently things unknown to the seafarer, which apparently didn't wish the five hundred bucks as much as he wished to assassinate the grinnin' champion. Our challenger must of committed a million glarin' fouls—hittin' plenty low, tryin' to trip the Kid, to wrestle him to the floor, buttin' him with his bullet head and heelin' with

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 the back of his glove. The place was a bedlam as the bell ended the third! round with the sailor still on his feet. Kid Roberts, bleedin' slightly from a cut on the head where this baboon had butted him, was glad to hear the gong. The champion made just one comment as we worriedly sponged him off: "This fellow's a tough man. He hits hard. I'll be sorry to stop him, but—here he goes!"

Up to date, Kid Roberts had devoted the bulk of his time to avoidin' the sailor's murderous rushes, blockin' his terrible wallops and occasionally counterin' with light lefts and rights. The champ, of course, had forgot more about boxin' than this ham would ever know and could of made a gory wreck of him, but Kid Roberts never punished a man unnecessarily. How the so ever, with the bell for the fourth and last frame, the Kid went out to finish this foul-fightin' ape and punched him all over the ring. Two right uppercuts in succession drove the sailor against the ropes and a third sent him to his knees a total loss. He got up without waitin' for the count and floundered drunkenly around, whilst his pals howled for him to tie in and our admirers screamed for the Kid to bounce him. Kid Roberts measured his man carefully, then shot over a perfectly-timed left and a terrible right to the jaw. Down goes Mons. Seaman like a broken ceilin'. He was staggerin' dazedly to his feet at "nine", when the bell rings, savin' him from a knockout, to the insane delight of his shipmates!

"Give 'im the five hundred—he stayed the four

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 rounds!" squawks the sailors, dancin' wildly and wavin' their arms like maniacs. Ptomaine glares down at 'em longin'ly, but I grabbed him and says if he left that stage I'd leave him flat in Frisco for good and all! He believes me and contents himself with exchangin' choice compliments with these monkeys. Meanwhile, the big anchovy the Kid fought has fully recovered and comes over to us, lookin' as fresh and as full of fight as when he climbed into the ring.

"Gimme the dough!" he grunts, shovin' his ugly pan within a touch of my own. "I was on me feet at the end of the fight!"

"I'll give you nothin', you big tramp!" I says, hotly, "You'd of been counted out in another second and"

"That will do, Joe!" butts in Kid Roberts. "Pay him the money—he's earned it and we aren't welshers!" He turns to the big sailor, whilst I'm grumblin'ly countin' out the gelt, "You made a fine showing and had me bothered for awhile, old man," says the Kid, pleasantly, and holds out his hand. "Shake?"

This gentleman of the old school snatches the five hundred from me and brushes the Kid's outstretched hand aside with a oath.

"You bet I made a fine showin'!" he snarls. "I'd of licked you in five more minutes. I could ruin a guy like you every day in the week and twice on Sunday. C'mon down to the foc's le of my ship and finish it, if you ain't too yellah!"

Kid Roberts grins at him good-naturedly and moves

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 away. Thena rush of the excited, curious mob millin' around us separates him from me and Ptomaine.

When they fin'ly get the place cleared, there's no sign of Kid Roberts and on top of that I can't locate him in the dressin' rooms. Ptomaine figures the Kid lost us in the crowd and wantin' to make a quick get-away to duck both his admirers and them extremely unadmirin' sailors, he's dashed on ahead to our inn. Well, I kind of unwillin'ly give up the search and hurried with Ptomaine to the hotel we was honorin' with our presence.

In the lobby, a cutey whose face and form would of aroused Nero's curiosity, gets up from a chair and starts towards us. Ptomaine Joe immediately brushes back his hair and straightens his tie.

"Wam—what a disturbance this snapper is!" says Ptomaine. "She's headin' right for us, too. I only hope she's mistook me for a old college chum of hers. Watch me promote—I bet I take her to supper!"

"She don't look like no lunatic," I says, sarcastically.

At this minute, the fair damsel reaches us and uncorks a smile which scrambled the tenth-ounce of brain in Ptomaine's possession.

"Pardon me," she says, "which of you two gentlemen is the manager of Kid Roberts?"

"There's only one gentleman here," I says. "I'm the Kid's pilot."

"Oh—then you must be Mister Murphy—I've heard so much about you!" gushes our opponent, "I'm Angela Yerkes, of the Morning Shriek. I want to interview the champion from a woman's viewpoint and

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 I've been waiting patiently for two hours to see him!"

"He isn't in his room yet?" I ask, in quick alarm.

Angela shakes her pretty head.

"I'll go right up and investigate matters, Angel—eh—Miss Yerkes," butts in Ptomaine, with a silly grin. "They ain't nobody got around to introducin' me yet, so I'll do it myself. I'm no less than Ptomaine Joe and if you ain't heard about me, then you ain't heard about the Statue of Liberty, either!"

"Indeed I have heard about you," smiles Angela, "and I'm awfully glad to meet you personally."

"Me and you both!" says this boy scout, "I'm one of them he-men, from the big, open spaces—a cyclone amongst men, but as gentle as a lamb with women. What are you goin' to do this evenin'?"

"Get upstairs and see if the Kid's there, Stupid!" I hollers, worried sick, and sent this tamale scurryin'.

In a few minutes, Ptomaine plunges out of the elevator, breathless and wild-eyed. Kid Roberts wasn't in his room and a hasty interview with the interested clerk on duty brung out the fact that he hadn't showed up or even phoned a message to us. Well, as the Kid had no intimate friends in Frisco, was a stickler for early retirin' hours with strict trainin' discipline at all times and had been a trifle used up from his battle with that big sailor, I now begin to get genuinely scared. Ptomaine helped my peace of mind a lot by suggestin' that maybe the sailor boy's friends had ganged the Kid in revenge for him beatin' up their pal—a thing I feared myself! Angela,

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 greatly excited, is all eager questions and Ptomaine tells her about the four-round bout in the hall, whilst I sent a bellhop for a taxi. I happened to remember that earlier in the evenin' a special cop had told me the name of the ship them merry sailors come off and also the pier it was parked at. I shouid of dashed to some police station and brung a slew of coppers with me and before the night was over I sure wished I had done so. But I was too worked up right then to think of that, or to think of anything but gettin' to the Kid at my earliest possible convenience!

When Angela gets hep to the situation, she claims this is a really big story and one which would make her contemplated interview with Kid Roberts about as thrillin' as a hired girl's obituary. She must go with us, she says with sparklin' eyes and is inside the cab before I knew she was in earnest! I tried to argue her out of goin' along, tellin' her there would prob'ly be dirty work at the and plenty hats broken before we got through. Angela's answer to this was a delighted, "I certainly hope there is!" What could you do with a girl like that?

"Let the little lady stay," says Ptomaine, throwin' out a 50-inch chest, "if the worst comes to worst, I'll take care of her!"

Angela favors him with a faint smile.

"Be still!" she says, "and let's hurry. If the worst comes to worst, I'll take care of you both!"

And out of her handbag she takes a cute, but satisfactory-lookin' gun and a reporter's police lines badge.

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 I throwed up my hands and told the taxi driver where to go. The weaker sex, hey? Tomato sauce!

Well, we reached the dock and found our ship to be a dirty, disreputable-lookin' tramp steamer. At the gangplank is lollin' a sailor, which both me and Ptomaine instantly pegged as bein' one of the bunch in the hall where we give our show that night. This guy presents us with a evil grin when he recognizes us in turn, as Ptomaine comes right to the point, beatin' me to it.

"Hey, Dizzy!" growls Ptomaine, "we want to know what happened to Kid Roberts after he beat up 'at buddy of yours to-night. The champ's disappeared and"

"Ptu!" interrupts our charmin' vis-a-vis, foulin' the bay with tobacco juice, "and what should I know about yer faint-hearted friend? He's prob'ly skipped town, the big yellah bum, he was afraid the mate would lay for him to break his pretty face! I think I could do it meself!"

"What's your thoughts regardin' this?" snarls Ptomaine—and sent him sprawlin' on his back with a right-hander.

Then we run down the gangplank, peerin' about the dark and littered deck. There was a scuffle of feet behind us and I suddenly remembered we'd left Miss Angela Yerkes up on the dock. I turned to look and Wam—somethin' crashed on my head and I went out like a candle in a hurricane.

So that was that!

When I next come to life, I'm flat on my back in the forecastle of the ship—which is movin'—and I'm

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 bound hand and foot. Beside me is Ptomaine Joe, in the same unpleasant predicament. Nearby is Kid Roberts, sittin' against a bulkhead, but his arms is also tied behind his back. Laugh that off! The oversize sailor which had stayed four rounds with the Kid is standin' over him, bawlin' him out in terms which introduced somethin' new in the way of two-handed cussin' and highly tickled the assembled deckhands. Durin' the next few minutes, we learned that the fightin' sailor was mate of the ship we're aboard and evidently one of the old-time "buckos," from the way the other help seemed to fear him. Angela is nowheres in sight, for which I'm more than thankful, though that don't stop me from worryin' plenty over what happened to her amidst a crew of rats like these! Anyways, after turnin' his free-swingin' tongue on me and Ptomaine, the mate chased all but two guys out and himself left the forecastle.

Well, we swap experiences with Kid Roberts, whilst our two guards watches us suspiciously. The fact that he'd been Shanghied didn't seem to particularly annoy the Kid, which appeared to view the whole affair as a interestin' adventure. He even laughed at me and Ptomaine for bein' burnt up at his account of how he was overpowered and kidnapped by the sailors, after the bout in the hall.

"But what's the big idea?" I says. "What does these guys want with us?" I asked him.

"With you and Ptomaine, I'm sure I don't know," smiles Kid Roberts, "unless they've brought you along as mascots. As for me—well, I've been told I've got

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 to meet our sanguinary friend, the mate, in a finish fight as soon as we lose sight of land!"

At mate sure loves to get bruised, don't he?" remarks Ptomaine, wonderin'ly. "Well, he's just a twopuncho kayo for either you or me, Kid! 'At's the least of it. What happens after you put him away?"

Kid Roberts simply shrugs his big shoulders.

"I must refer you to our hosts," he says, noddin' to our two scowlin' wardens.

Ptomaine glowers at 'em.

"Hey—where's this scow headed for?" he asks one.

"China!" is the grunted answer. "Keep yer mouth shut!"

Speechless with rage, I could only start a one-man discussion of their ancestors, whilst with a low moan, Ptomaine fell back on the floor again. Kid Roberts looks at us and laughs his head off!

Threats of the law had the same effect on our guards as they would on a couple of mummies. They just grinned and regaled us with stories about the mate's fluency as a fighter—he was more than a fighter, he was a killer, accordin' to them. Well, the Kid's right uppercut has took the ambition out of manys the killer—in the ring and out of it—so none of us fainted with fear of what the mate would do to him. What we all was worried about, though, was Angela Yerkes. Questions about her brung nothin', but blank looks and Kid Roberts whispered to us to keep quiet, as maybe the girl had managed to hide herself somewheres aboard and they mightn't even know she was there yet.

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 After awhile, the Chinese cook comes down with a tray of chow. Ugh—I can close my eyes now, think of that goo and get seasick! The very sight and smell of it, added to the musty air of the forecastle and the rollin' of the ship, knocked us over and we shooed Mr. Cook away. That was one thing us and our guards agreed on. They chased the Chinaman out of the place with a storm of rare oaths, windin' up by throwin' their own platters of eats after him in disgust.

Ptomaine Joe was just a chump as a box fighter, but in a kitchen I have yet to see his equal, no kiddin'! Children, what that big goof could do with a skillet would make the Fitz-Charlton chef take cyanide! Ptomaine knew more about cookin' than Bryan does about ridicule and he immediately begins discoursin' on some of the delicious poultices he'd served up to Kid Roberts on various occasions. The man-mountain's pain-stakin' descriptions of these ravishin' dishes is so appetizin' that the two sailors' mouths soon begins to water and after questionin' Ptomaine till they satisfied themselves he really was a Grade-A cook, they got more friendly. One of 'em tells us the ship ain't bound for China or no place else, but is simply sailin' out in the bay where the fight between the mate and Kid Roberts is to be staged. He adds that the captain give his permission for the fracas to take place on board the lugger to please the crew, which is on the brinks of mutiny on the account of the horrible cookin' of the Chinese chef. At this interestin' point, Kid Roberts butts in to ask angrily if the captain

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 also gave his permission to have him kidnapped. The sailors grins and says no—that clever little detail was their own idea!

Actin' on the orders of Kid Roberts, Ptomaine switched the conversation back to food and kept it there, till fin'ly the hungry sailors has a whispered conference. Then they proposition us. If we'll give our words to act like gents and not start nothin' rash, they'll untie us—provided Ptomaine Joe goes to the galley and makes good his boasted ability as a cookin' fool! It took us about fifteen seconds to agree to that and it took Ptomaine about fifteen minutes to compose from odds and ends in the ship's kitchen a steamin' stew which seemed to go past the two seamen's wildest dreams! They tied into it like they'd been told it was their last meal that year, stuffin' themselves to the ears, whilst the Chinese cook stood by, mutterin' laundry tickets under his breath. He looked longin'ly at a big cleaver and then at Ptomaine, but that's as far as the Chink went with his thoughts!

The nourishment is no more than out of the way, when down comes the blood-thirsty mate and orders us up on deck. He frowned at our two scared watchmen when he seen we was untied, but said nothin'. Ptomaine wanted to rush the mate right then and there and lay him like a pavement, but Kid Roberts held him back, gently remindin' him that there was enough roughnecks aboard to get us sooner or later and besides this was his quarrel, not Ptomaine's.

Once on deck we're led to the stern where a large space had been cleared and is lined with sailors, eager

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 for bloodshed and violence. The howl they set up when we hove in view must of disturbed the little fishes and frightened the timid barnacles to death! On the top of a hatch sits the captain, which seemed to be a nice, jovial old man. Beside him, crazy with excitement—is Miss Angela Yerkes! Whilst I'm takin' all this in and Ptomaine rushes over to Angela to find out how come and the etc., Kid Roberts, cool and unruffled, turns to the swaggerin' mate.

"I say, old man," he says, "this is all rather silly, don't you think? Why should we fight—I mean, just what is the issue at stake? Absurd, isn't it? Suppose we forget about it and I'll forget about the manner in which my friends and myself were detained aboard here. I"

"I knew you'd crawl, you white-livered quitter!" the mate cuts him off with a sneer. "You'll fight me or I'll break you in half—get that?"

"Very well, you infernal idiot!" snaps the Kid, white and hard-eyed. "You're spoiling for a beating, and, by Gad, I'm spoiling now to give it to you!"

The sudden, new tone in the Kid's voice caused a slightly uneasy look to flash in the mate's eyes for a second, but he shrugged his shoulders and went ahead with the preparations for the battle. In the meanwhile, Ptomaine come back from his interview with Angela Yerkes and tells us the results. There was nothin' at all pleasant connected with Ptomaine's report! Angela told him she hadn't been harmed by the sailors, which took her to the captain when she waved her reporter's police badge at 'em. She begged

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 the skipper to let her stay and see the fight and fin'ly vamped herself into a ringside seat—not a unusual feat for a good looker. Angela's kind can talk themselves in or out of anything, you know that. But the kick in Angela's budget of news was that the sailors has bet the captain a month's wages that the mate will knock Kid Roberts out! She gleefully anticipated a riot if the Kid wins and thinks it's all "perfectly thrilling!" Well, we didn't think it was perfectly thrillin'—we knew it was!

One of the sailors come over and gruffly told us the rules. They were all built to order for the mate—protect yourself at all times, no blows of any nature barred, hit on the breaks and break on the captain's orders from where he was perched on the hatch, three-minute rounds, one-minute rest between each frame, the muss to last till either Kid Roberts or the mate couldn't come up for any more pastin'. It might go one round or it might go a hundred, but in any event it was to go to a finish!

The bell was a tin dishpan which a sailor smacked with a belayin pin.belayin' pin. [sic] Another tar was timekeeper and when I says either me or Ptomaine should be one of the officials, they laughed me away. By this time, the ship was well out in the bay and rockin' like a cradle—tricky footin' that the mate was used to, but a fearful handicap to Kid Roberts! Just before the start of this strange bout, the boat dipped heavily and Kid Roberts was thrown to his knees. The sailors yelled with delight at this mishap, in joyful anticipation of what was to come. Both Angela and the

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