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 a shoe in resin. He was too clean with most of the guys he fought—steppin' away with arms upraised out of the clinches and lettin' his man recover his balance from a chance stumble when even the customers was howlin' for him to knock the jobbie out. This bought referee's "warnin's" was just part of the frame to make the Kid lose, and I knew that as soon as the third man in the ring thought the time was ripe we'd be disqualified for "foulin'." Honest, as all this dawns on me I ain't fit to be at large!

Kid Roberts was cautious and slow to get started, Oliver takin' the first round by doin' most of the leadin'. A wicked and generally well-timed straight left kept the Kid's head bobbin' and soon had his face painted red. He followed my advice to keep in close after a bit and at infightin' he handled the champ like a baby, poundin' Oliver's ribs with short lefts and rights which didn't do the heavyweight king a bit of good. The honest referee soon noticed this, however, and rushin' nobly to Oliver's rescue, kept the men apart. Just after the bell Kid Roberts slipped half-ways to the mat in breakin' from a clinch and Oliver uppercut him with a terrible right whilst he was still off balance. A storm of booes and hisses come from the crowd and the champ sneered as he walked to his corner, leavin' the Kid dazed against the ropes.

A few douses of cold water, some expert massagin' at the back of his neck and the old ammonia bottle under his nose brung Kid Roberts around and I sent him out for Round Two with instructions to mail everything to Oliver's head and jaw. I'm double cer-

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 tain that the first punch within walkin' distance of the champ's belt will be the signal for the referee to stop the fight.

They met in mid-ring, Kid Roberts this time duckin' Oliver's automatic straight left and wakin' up the house by counterin' with a stiff right cross to the chin. The champ didn't like this and clinched, complainin' to the sympathetic referee when the Kid whaled away with both hands at his mid-section. The referee quickly broke 'em and was heartily razzed by the crowd. Oliver shot a right and left to the head and the Kid was short with a left to the face. They fiddled around, each lookin' for a openin' which would end it and the impatient mob whistled and stamped their feet, bellerin' for a little more speed.

Kid Roberts obliged with a left uppercut to the heart and a right to the ear. He got a torrid left to the wind in return and tried to clinch, but the champ suddenly woke up and drove him across the ring with a shower of lefts and rights to face and body. The house was in a uproar and the Kid looked to me for advice. "Mix it!" I hollered. "This banana never seen the day he could punch with you!"

With his back against the ropes in Oliver's corner, the Kid brung up his right in a vicious uppercut which sent Oliver's head back like it was hinged and shook the water out of his hair. They then stood shoulder to shoulder and slugged like a pair of enraged maniacs till outside the ropes it sounded like a race riot! Both quickly tired from the terrific pace and fell into a clinch, where Oliver hit Kid Roberts four times with

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 the deadly and foul rabbit punch on the back of his neck. The referee paid no attention to the hisses and the Kid fin'ly shoved Oliver away by main strength. On the break, Oliver whose ugly pan iooked like a raw steak, shot a left to the heart and the Kid's knees sagged. A terrible right to the jaw put him on one knee for the first knockdown, and the delighted referee had counted a speedy "three" when the bell rung. Kid Roberts was a very tired boy when he slumped heavily on his stool, and it was another round for Mr. Oliver—and the charmin' referee.

I must say the outlook was what you call dark when I commence workin' frantically on the Kid durin' the one minute rest and I could of knocked myself off for ever lettin' him go in against the champion with only one fight under his belt after his long lay off. It was the Kid's own fault, of course, but that was no time to tell him as he sprawled wearily on the stool, starin' with dull eyes at the ocean of excitedly workin' faces around the ring. The punch which floored him just before the gong had hurt plenty and as I smeared collodion on a nasty cut over his left eye I whispered to him to stall through the next round and use his dazzlin' footwork to keep away from the champion's right.

The Kid didn't seem to hear me at all, just mutterin' somethin' about the unfairness of the referee. I suddenly felt somebody pullin' at my pants leg and shoutin' my name. As I glance down with a appropriate remark, a newspaper guy passes up a envelope to me. It's a cablegram to Kid Roberts from Dolores, his wife; I see that when I rip it open and gaze at the signature

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 first, a habit of mine. Aha, I think to myself, just what the Kid needs—the word from his wife that she's rootin' for him to go in and win! Like a book, what I mean, hey? I hold the message in front of the fast-recoverin' Kid's eyes. He shakes his head a couple of times to clear it, looks at me with a puzzled frown and then reads the cable. Slowly his teeth comes together with a click and his jaw sets hard. He scowls across the ring at Jim Oliver, and, suddenly pushin' me away, he jumps off the stool, though there's eight seconds before the bell, and stands there waitin' for it with the impatience of a prancin' two-year-old at the barrier. This eagerness to get at it from a guy which flopped on his stool apparently all but out at the end of the last round puts the crowd in a fresh frenzy and nobody heard the gong for the third frame but the fighters themselves!

This is the cheering cable which Dolores sent her hard-pressed hubby to show she was standin' by him and to hop him up to win:

Hot scrapple! Should I only of read that thing first, Kid Roberts would never of cast a eye over it. Imagine sendin' that kind of a pannin' to a guy losin'

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 a tough fight! I throwed up my hands and got the old towel ready to toss in if Kid Roberts got floored more than once, because I think between Jim Oliver, the referee, and that dizzy cable, why, it's all over except the count.

If what I don't know was grapes, I'd have more grapes than Mr. Concord himself! That cable seems to act on the Kid like a cold shower on a heavy sleeper. He met the highly confident Oliver before that baby was half-ways out of his corner. Sidesteppin' a left lead, the Kid swung a right and left to the head that crashed the champ reelin' against the ropes and simply panicked the mob. Oliver was groggy and tried to clinch, but that didn't fit in with the Kid's idea of matters and a short left hook to the heart again staggered the champ, whilst a sizzlin' right to the mouth brought the blood in a stream. In Oliver's corner they are shoutin' enough advice to their man to solve Germany's problem! The punch-drunk champion managed to flounder into a clinch, but that was simply a bad case of out of the fryin' pan into the fire, because once in close Kid Roberts banged away at Oliver's ribs till they're as red as any blaze you ever seen.

Oliver throws the referee a glance which would of melted a iceberg, and that bozo, which had been actin' like he was hypnotized by the terrible execution Kid Roberts was doin', snapped out of it and shoved the men apart. He likewise "warns" Kid Roberts—for what I don't know. The champ slipped to his knees on the break and that was the tip-off on the shape he's in.

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 Oh, the crowd—you should have heard 'em by this time! The Kid calmly waits till Oliver gets to his feet, ducked a wild right jab, and then sent Oliver down on all fours with a right swing. Oliver took "nine" and got up, a set-up for a tenth-rater. Kid Roberts was no tenth-rater! He carefully measured the reelin' champ with his left and I howled for him to keep the next one up, but how could he hear me with thousands of lunatics screechin' wildly: "Knock him dead! Knock him, Kid, knock him!"

Roberts then sunk his right to the laces under Oliver's heart and down goes Mr. Champion on his face. That punch was as clean as a hound's tooth, but bellers of "Foul! Foul!" comes immediately from Oliver's corner and the gamblers around the ring. This reaches the battered ears of the sick champion and he rolls over on his back, twistin' his face in a knot and pressin' both gloves against his stomach.

He's actin' his head off, the big boloney. If he was fouled, so was Cornwallis! But the framers keep up the cry and in a second half the crowd is yellin' "Foul!" and the other half is screamin' for the referee to go on with the count. The referee hesitates a instant, then waves Kid Roberts to his corner and awards the fight to the prostrate and fairly beaten "champion" on a foul!

Kid Roberts stares at the referee like he thinks that guy has went crazy, then he looks at me like he won't believe his own ears without a witness. But the maddened shrieks of the boys out in front which has bet on him convinces him that there's no question

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 about him bein' gypped out of the title. For a minute I thought the enraged Kid Roberts would take a wallop at the white-faced referee and he did take a step toward him, but I jumped over the ropes and grabbed him. Some of the newspaper guys is at my heels and they're as burnt up as we are.

"That's positively the worst robbery I ever saw and I've been covering fights for fifteen years!" says the guy from the Whirl. "That's the kind of thing that kills boxing. Believe me, boys, I'll pan that decision every day in every way for the next six months!"

"You should be world's champion right now!" adds the Sphere sport editor to the boilin' Kid.

The boos and hisses outside the ropes drowns out whatever he might of answered. There's a young revolution goin' on and the coppers has got to escort Mr. Referee to safety. Two-thirds of the frothin' customers mills after us to the dressin' room, slappin' Kid Roberts on the back and assurin' us that we won from here to Liverpool. The Kid says nothin'. He's speechless with rage and disappointment.

When we get inside the room we're greeted by Ptomaine Joe, which had certainly put in one rough evenin' himself—knocked out by One-Jab McGoldberg and throwed out by the coppers. The battlin' chef looks the photograph of gloom, but he brightens a bit when he sees us.

"How did you make out?" he asks eagerly.

"Shut up!" I snarls. "I think you're a Jonah. I got a good mind to crate you back to that lumber camp, you big stiff! They tell us we lose on a foul!"

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Rh of mine, whom I have been educating in the quiet of the country. If what you say of her is true, it is certain that she will be a great deal run after. The charge of such a girl needs immense tact and care; I do not think it would be fair to saddle Tō no Chūjō with so great a responsibility.’ ‘That shall be as your Highness decides,’ answered Ukon. ‘I am sure, at any rate, that if you do not tell Tō no Chūjō, no one else will. And for my part I had rather she should go to you than to any one else. For I am certain you are anxious to make what amends you can for your part in leading Yūgao to her miserable fate; and what better way could there be to do this, than by promoting her daughter’s happiness by every means in your power?’ ‘The fact that I ruined the mother might to some people seem a strange reason for claiming custody of the child,’ said Genji smiling; but his eyes were filled with tears. ‘My love for her still fills a great part of my thoughts,’ he said after a pause. ‘You must think that a strange thing for me to say, considering how my household is now arranged…. And it is true that in the years since her death I have formed many deep attachments. But, believe it or not as you will, by no one has my heart ever been stirred as it was by your dear mistress in those far-off days. You have known me long enough to see for yourself that I am not one in whom such feelings lightly come and go. It has been an unspeakable comfort to me during all these years that to you at least I could sometimes talk of your mistress, sometimes ease my longing. But that was not enough. I yearned for some object dear to her upon which I could lavish ceaseless pains and care. What could be more to my purpose than that this orphaned child of hers should thus be entrusted to my protection?’

His next step must be a letter to Tamakatsura herself. He remembered Suyetsumu’s extreme incapacity in this

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 "That's tough!" says Ptomaine Joe. "Very tough. But it's better than the way I lost, ain't it? What am I goin' to get for that brawl of mine?"

"Cut yourself a piece of cake!" I sneers. "You ought to be glad to get immunity—if you can fight, I can fly!" Then I turned to Kid Roberts. "I hope you're all cured of boxin' boys which insults girls!" I says bitterly. "If you had waited for Oliver till you was right, we"

A soft rappin' interrupts me. Ptomaine Joe opens the door and falls back with a gasp. Our visitor is no less than the cause of all the trouble—Miss Désirée Collet! She seems to of been weepin', and why shouldn't she? I presented her with a scowl, and, greatly surprised, Kid Roberts reaches for his bath: robe.

"Oh, I am so sorry I lie to you!" she says. "Quelle honte!"

"What d'ye mean you lied?" I asks, as Kid Roberts appears dumb.

"J'en suis très fachée!" says Désirée.

"That's the cat's whiskers!" I says impatiently. "Speak my talk—does this look like Paris?"

"I tol' you Monsieur Olivaire insult me," explains Désirée to the frownin' Kid, snubbin' me and dabbin' at her eyes with a inch of lace. "Zat was wrong! He says nozzing to me. I leave zat act because mon père weel not let me wear zat costume zat you no like!"

There's plenty silence for a minute, except Désirée's sobs, and then the Kid speaks up. "Why did you lie

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 to me at all?" he says coldly, but it seems to me his eyes is grinnin'.

"I weesh to see if you weel fight for Désirée!" says this remarkable young woman, hangin' her head.

You could of slapped me over with a telegraph pole. The little—eh—imp!

"Désirée," says Kid Roberts, pretendin' to be red-headed, but I know he's fakin' it. "I am angry and surprised at you. You should be taken home and—and spanked! If I promise not to have you punished as you so richly deserve, will you return to St. Thérèse with your father?"

"Mais oui!" says Désirée tearfully.

Kid Roberts looks greatly relieved, and I'm simply overboard with delight. The Kid turns to Ptomaine Joe, which ain't been able to unfasten his eyes from Désirée since she come in the room. "Joe," says the Kid sternly, "take this young lady to her hotel, explain matters to her father and arrange for their tickets so that they may leave to-morrow. I put her in your charge!"

Ptomaine Joe looks like somebody had just proved to him that he's the rightful heir to Yellowstone Park. He gulps and grabs the Kid's hand.

"Say!" he busts out. "They can't tell me you ever fouled anybody. C'mon, Désirée!"

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days of old when knights was bold no nobby young blood's wardrobe was complete without a first-class motto. The Duke of Dorset's motto covers this episode in the life of Kid Roberts like charity covers sin. It was: "Either never attempt or else accomplish!" That's a good thought, what? In other words: "Don't start nothin' you can't finish!" If you don't think that's good advice, ask Don Miguel Espinosa—that's if that guy's snapped out of it yet. The last I seen him, he was sprawled on the floor of the Kid's dressin' room at the Jersey City A. C. as cold as a polar bear's nose!

After Kid Roberts smacked Jim Oliver, the heavyweight champ, as stiff as a top sergeant's back, but was robbed of the title by that yegg referee which called the punch foul, I had made up my mind to take my athlete around the sticks, fightin' him against second- and third-raters till he'd knocked off enough of these boloneys to demand a quarrel with the champion again. Désirée Collet had skipped back to St. Thérèse and her departure tickled everybody silly, with the slight exception of Ptomaine Joe.

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 Whilst I'm stallin' around New York linin' up a busy campaign through the Middle West and tryin' to keep the railroad leaps down so's we can show a profit at the end of the jaunt, Jim Oliver, stung by the way the sport writers is pannin' him daily on his showin' with Kid Roberts, takes on Battlin' Miller for fifteen frames at the Garden. Well, Battlin' Miller took a proper pastin' for ten rounds, but he was tougher than chilled steel and Mr. Champ fought himself out tryin' to stop him. From then on the Battler cuffed the arm-weary and wind-blown title holder all over the ring, floorin' him in the last round for a short count. The judges handed Oliver the decision, drivin' the crowd crazy, but most of the newspapers took the angle that Battlin' Miller's work in the last five innin's had offset the champion's early lead and they give the Battler a draw. That little incident boosted Miller's wages from about $2,500 a fight to about $2,500 a round.

The sport writers then call for a brawl between Kid Roberts and Battlin' Miller, the winner to get another shot at Jim Oliver's crown, as both the boys had shown in their fights with him that they had a right to think they could take him. "Honest John" Keller, at that time promoter of the Jersey City A. C., signs Miller and then Johnny takes a runnin' jump to New York and propositions me. He offers us $15,000 flat for twelve rounds with the Battler at his club. I counter with a offer to let Kid Roberts display his wares for a guarantee of fifteen grand with the privilege of takin' 33 1-3 per cent of the gross, knowin' that Roberts and Miller would draw like a poultice. Johnny snapped me

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 up so swift that I'm sorry to this day I didn't also insist on him takin' out a $100,000 life-insurance policy and makin' me the beneficiary!

Like all fight clubs, the Jersey City A. C.'s got a local drawin' card—a boy the matchmaker builds up with the fans by sendin' him against a set-up each week till he's got a string of K. O.'s after his name as long as a giraffe's neck. In the caseof "Honest John" Keller's abattoir, the prima donna was a inexpensive heavy entitled Tornado Tate, and Johnny wanted his house packer on the bill with Roberts and Miller so's to insure a crowd which would jam his club to the mortgages. Well, Ptomaine Joe's workin' out every day with the Kid, and this tomato is rarin' to go again, in spite of the fact that he was a total loss in his first professional fight. So when Johnny Keller says he's only got one grand to squander on the to the big fight and he's got to give Monsieur Tornado Tate $750 of that, I says I'll toss Ptomaine Joe into the ring with his man eater for the other $250. As Cain remarked to Abel, it's all fun!

In the meanwhile the society pages of the newspapers has been full of the Kid's wife's photos and her activities in this French slab, Deauville. These newspaper stories from across the boundin' main was gettin' my box fighter thoughtful, and don't think they wasn't. The particular item which ruined the Kid was a radio claimin' that a Spanish omelet by the high-soundin' title of Don Miguel Espinosa was payin' constant attention to Dolores. A dozen times a day Kid Roberts wanted to let fightin' run for the end book, pack a suit case

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 and beat it for Europe to give Don Miguel the last lesson first and incidentally have a show-down with his wife. But I managed to cool him off, tellin' him that kind of antics would only make matters worse. My advice was to wait till Dolores come back to America and then stage the big conference. Well, Dolores come back all right and Don Miguel blew over on the next boat!

Kid Roberts was what is known as a one-woman man and he still thinks Dolores is the only female in the wide, wide world in spite of the fact that she canceled him when he went back to the ring to earn his livin'. The Kid's broodin' over his family troubles was keepin' him awake at nights and causin' him to neglect his trainin' for Battlin' Miller to such a extent that I begin to do a piece of worryin' myself. From the way Kid Roberts was performin' in the gym, he didn't look able to punch his way out of a paper bag and this Battlin' Miller from all accounts was nobody's fool. So I decide to pay Dolores a visit myself and see if I can't fix things up between her and the Kid before they get to the unfixable stage.

I piled into a taxi and got whisked out to the sultan's palace on Fifth Avenue where Dolores was stayin' with her father, Senator Brewster. The old boy had been a strong booster for Kid Roberts from the time he met him. So I figured on gettin' to him first and then havin' him come in with me when I started to work on Dolores.

As luck would have it, the Senator was in a place called elsewhere when I called and the haughty butler.

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 after lookin' me over like I was a immigrant's trunk and he was a customs inspector, was goin' to give me the gate without further ado. I was seriously considerin' the proposition of smackin' him down, when Dolores happened to pass and hear my voice.

"Why, of all people!" she says. "Hello, Joe—I'm so glad to see you!" Then she turns to the butler, which knows he's batted out of turn and looks it. "Peters, show Mister Murphy to the drawin' room," she says. "I'll join you in a moment, Joe. Make yourself comfortable."

Now that he sees I mean somethin', this butler buttles his head off for my benefit.

Whilst I'm waitin' for Dolores, I hear her at the telephone in the hall. It seems she's givin' orders to her political lieutenants, and from her line of chatter you'd think she was a Tammany Hall boss. Short, crisp, man talk and right to the point.

Waitin' for her to hang up the phone and come into the drawin' room, I'm nervously rehearsin' in my mind the speech I'm goin' to make to her in behalf of Kid Roberts—her husband and our mutual friend. Tryin' to pour oil on the troubled waters of matrimony is what you call a delicate task and as a rule the best you can look for is the worst of it. In the middle of my thoughts along these lines, in comes Dolores, caparisoned in a negligée which would of drove Nero cuckoo.

"Dolor—eh—Mrs. Halliday," I begins. "You"

"Not Mrs. Halliday, Joe," smiles Dolores, takin' a seat opposite me. "Miss Brewster!"

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 That shot me out of my chair! "What?" I gasps. "Have you got unmarried to Kid Roberts?"

Dolores throws a blush which would of made a rose wince with envy and then she frowns.

"Joe, I must ask you not to repeat that vulgar sobriquet that Kane has adopted as a mask for his beastly pugilistic activities," she tells me. "I loathe it! Fancy—Mrs. Kid Roberts! Oh!"

"But there ain't nobody calls you Mrs. Kid Roberts," I says, in what I hope is a soothin' voice. "Everybody knows you as Mrs. Kane Halliday and there's a name with some stuff to it!"

"Well, they will know me hereafter as Dolores Brewster!" she snaps, comin' back and sittin' down again. "Possibly as Senator Brewster!"

"I—eh—well, for one thing," I says, tryin' to lighten the atmosphere, "it would look kind of funny to see in the paper, 'Dolores Brewster and Kane Halliday have taken a suite at the Ritz,' wouldn't it?"

Dolores laughs, but quickly gets serious again.

"You will never see anything like that, Joe," she says. "Kane and I have come to the parting of the ways. Why, I'm virtually an unmarried woman now, am I not? Do I ever see my husband?"

"Well," I says, "that ain't altogether the Kid's—eh—Kane's fault, now is it? I bet if you hadn't blowed to Europe he'd of been here long ago and everything would of been jake. Why, the boy's simply dyin' on his feet from the dread disease of love. He always was maniacal about you, is now and always will be!"

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184 direction, and feared that Tamakatsura, after her strange upbringing, might prove to be a hundred times more hesitating and inefficient. It was therefore in order to know the worst as soon as possible that he now lost no time in addressing her. His letter was full of the friendliest assurances; in the margin was written the poem: ‘It shows not from afar; but seek and you shall find it, the marsh-flower of the Island. For from the ancient stem new shoots for ever spring.’

Ukon herself was the bearer of this letter; she also reported much of what Genji had said to her, especially such expressions of cordiality and goodwill as would tend to allay Tamakatsura’s apprehensions. He also sent many handsome stuffs and dresses, with presents for her nurse and other members of the party. With Murasaki’s consent the Mistress-of-Robes had gone through all the store-cupboards and laid out before him an immense display of costumes, from which he chose those that were most distinctive in colour and design, thinking to astonish and delight an eye used to the home-spuns of Tsukushi.

Had all this kindness, nay even the smallest part of it, proceeded from her own father, Tamakatsura would indeed have been happy. But to be thus indebted to some one whom she had never seen and upon whom she had not the smallest claim, was an uncomfortable experience. As for taking up residence in his house—the prospect appalled her. But Ukon insisted that such an offer could not be refused; and those about her argued that so soon as she was decently set up in the world, her father would repent of his negligence and speedily lay claim to her. ‘That a mere nobody like old Ukon should be in a position to do any service at all is in itself a miracle,’ they said, ‘and could not have happened were not some God or Buddha on our side. For her to send a message to Tō no Chūjō is, compared

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 "He has rather peculiar methods of showing his affection, then," remarks Dolores, but she looks pleased. "What about this Collet woman?"

"Newspaper bunk!" I snorts. "I'll give you the low-down about that on my word of honor, which like Astor has never been broke! Désirée Collet was just a nutty kid. She comes to New York with her feeble old father, and as they didn't even know a traffic cop between 'em, Kane just played big brother for her, that's all, You're a woman—well, do you think if Kane had fell for Désirée she'd of got so sore at him that she wanted him trimmed by the heavyweight champ? Take it from me, Mrs. Brewster-Halliday, Kane never give her a tumble. You can't believe nothin' you see in the papers these days. Why, for instance, me and Kane has been readin' for weeks about some Spanish sheik by the name of Don Miguel Espinosa followin' you all over Europe! Of course, I know that's the"

I stop short, because Dolores has jumped up, her face blood red.

"Kane believes that?" she wants to know.

"Why, I should say not!" I says quickly. "But, at the same time, thinkin '  about it ain't doin' him a bit of good!"

"Does he know you were coming to see me?" is the next question, after a pause.

"No," I tell her promptly. "He'd murder me if he thought I was tryin' to be a Mr. Fix-It in his private affairs. Maybe you think I'm out of line, too, comin' here without no invitation. I'd do anything for either

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 of you and I hate to see Kane unhappy. If I'm out of order, I'm sorry and"

But Dolores cuts me off with a quick little pat on the arm, tellin' me she understands perfectly and I got nothin' to apologize for, as my valuable friendship is somethin' she never intends to lose. We talked about this and we talked about that, with me easin' the name of Kid Roberts into the conversation at every chance, and as I got up to shove off it looked like one visit from the Kid himself would bring them together forever and a day. So, all in all, I felt pretty well pleased with my day's work.

How the so ever, as I go out the door I run into somethin' in the hall which makes matters more complicated. The somethin' is no less than Mr. Don Miguel Espinosa, and when I heard friend butler repeat his monicker I stood still and took a good long look at this foreign banana. He's got on a swallow-tail coat, uncuffed pants, white spats, some flowers in his buttonhole and some more in his hand, packs a gold-headed cane, a watch crystal over one eye, and a silk hat on his bean. A high hat in the daytime!

I give this big clown a stare which seems to panic him for a instant, because he kind of shivered before lookin' me up and down with his little beady eyes like I'm somethin' puss dragged in on a wild and stormy night. This steams me up, and I would of knocked him as cold as Nanook's nose only I didn't want to start nothin' in Dolores's house. So I let him live, figurin' I couldn't possibly be unlucky enough not to get another chance at this mug—and I wasn't!

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 Well, when I got back to the inn where me and Kid Roberts is parkin' ourselves, I'm so highly pleased with the conference I had with Dolores that I boldly hauled off and told the Kid all about it. I didn't mention nothin' about this Don Miguel callin' whilst I was there, because my boy friend got so burnt up over me interferin' in his domestical affairs that discussin' this subject took up the worst part of a crowded hour and left us both hoarse. In fact, for a while it looked like the bust up of one of the greatest two-man combinations since Haig & Haig. How the so ever, when the smoke of battle died down, me and Kid Roberts is still playmates as of yore. The Kid recognizes that I had simply acted as a old friend of both combatants in tryin' to bring him and his bride together, and all is forgiven. I then drove home the point that, in my opinion, Dolores was now in the mood where if he'd shoot right up to her and do his stuff he could square things with ridiculous ease. This Don Miguel Espinosa had me bothered and I wanted Kid Roberts to come to bat with Dolores before that Spanish cake eater made himself solid with her.

At first the Kid couldn't see my angle with a spyglass, and he kind of irritably makes the suggestion that we drop the subject for a while—say till 1969. When I went out to file some bushwah with the sport writers he was pacin' the room like a panther in the zoo, and he was just as tame. But I found a note from him at the desk when I come back:

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Kid Roberts blew in about nine o'clock that night with his jaw set hard and his hat pulled down, till it almost covered his flashin', steel-gray eyes. He slammed the door after him so hard that two pictures, the phone book, and a clock fell off the wall with a crash!

"What's the big idea, Kid?" I says in surprise. "Didn't you see Dolores?"

He swung around on me like a flash. "Under the circumstances, Joe, your curiosity is pardonable," he tells me. "But in the future the subject of Dolores is taboo—let that be understood!"

"O. K.," I says. "And now that we got that all settled, did you see her?"

Kid Roberts glares at me for a minute and then he surrenders, "Yes—I saw Dolores," he says, curlin' his lip. "For various reasons, I didn't inform Dolores of my intended visit, and when I arrived at her father's house I found she was engaged with—eh—with another caller. I wouldn't permit the butler to announce me, as I intended to give Dolores what I hoped would be a pleasant surprise. Well, she accompanied her departing visitor to the reception hall, and there I confronted them. Instead of appearing glad to see me, Dolores was frankly embarrassed—yes, by Heaven, disconcerted at seeing me there! Recovering herself she intraduced her visitor. Joe, who do you think it was?"

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 "I know who it was," I says, without thinkin', "Don Miguel Espinosa!"

The Kid grabs my arm in a iron grip and swings me around, starin' at me with glitterin' eyes. "How did you guess that?" he demanded. "Or, was it merely a guess?"

"That's all," I says. "Didn't we both read in the paper that this jobbie had arrived here only a few boat lengths behind your wife?"

I didn't say nothin' about the Don bein' on hand when I called on Dolores. The Kid had already apparently seen enough to get him red-headed, and why should I throw gasoline on a fire?

It seems Kid Roberts and Don Miguel looked each other over with all the friendliness of a couple of strange bull-dogs and, not likin' what he read in the Kid's blazin' eye, this toreador scurried away. But the damage had been done! The hot-tempered Kid Roberts forgot he had come to make up with his wife and let go with both barrels. He led with Don Miguel and landed hard, but Dolores come right back with Désirée Collet and shook the Kid up considerably. Then Kid Roberts claimed a wife's place was in the home and not in politics and Dolores says when she wants a opinion she'll go to the Supreme Court; likewise, if he thinks more of the prize ring than he does of his weddin' ring he can close the door from the outside.

It was a fast draw.

After he cools off a bit Kid Roberts tells me he's satisfied this Don Miguel is a false alarm and simply

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 tryin' to gyp Dolores out of some heavy jack. But unless he gets somethin' on him, why, beatin' this bird up would only make matters worse between him and his wife and might even rebound in the Don's favor. So he decides to lay low for the time bein', trustin' to luck that this gil from Madrid will speak out of turn with Dolores or do somethin' which will show him up in his true colors. Personally he don't ever expect to lay a eye on the Don again and neither do I, for that matter, but we did—sweet spirits of niter, I'll say we did!

At the Hotel Escope, the trap where me and Kid Roberts is parked in New York, there's a telephone girl by the name of Beatrice Brown and she's a eye filler of the first water— Oh, a darb! She's made to order for the Follies, with the movies a set-up for her when she gets tired of the sport there. As usual, Ptomaine Joe can't sleep from thinkin' about her. Her switchboard just groaned under the load of confectionery and flowers which he loaded it with daily and all Bee did was to split amongst the other girls these costly sacrifices which Ptomaine laid at her altar and give Ptomaine a flock of wrong numbers in return.

But there was one member of our party which knocked Beatrice's heart for a trip, and that was Kid Roberts. Bee did eye work and all-around vampin' on the handsome Kid that had poor Ptomaine and the other males in the lobby gnashin' their teeth, but the Kid kept his head with her, bein' used to this kind of notice from the adjacent sex. In the worried state of mind the boy was in then, Beatrice, with her wise

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 crackin' chatter and open admiration, was just about the kind of bracer Kid Roberts needed. All pretty women is that way—a heady wine. Sip with caution and they're a tonic, but begin gulpin' down and—good night!

Well, to make a long story longer, I organize a party to go to the ball game one day to break up the monotony of the Kid's trainin' for the Battlin' Miller bout. Ptomaine Joe invites Beatrice Brown, which didn't want to have him around and didn't want to go till she heard Kid Roberts was goin', and then it was a case of try and keep her away! Our entrance to the ball park creates somethin' of a stir as the Kid is recognized and the news photographers aim their cameras at us, all of which tickles Beatrice silly. The way she snuggled up to Kid Roberts so's to be in the picture with him drove the love-lorn Ptomaine wild. Then one of the ball club officials sees us and makes a large fuss over Kid Roberts. He won't have it no other way but that the ex-heavyweight champion and party has a box on the house. As we crowd into it, Kid Roberts gasps and falls back against me, treadin' all over my feet. Followin' his glance, I do a piece of gaspin' myself, for amongst the party in the next box is no less than Dolores and Don Miguel Espinosa.

Swelterin' canine!

Lookin' around, they seen us right away, and Dolores turns a flamin' red, matchin' the crimson of the Kid's face. Kid Roberts merely bows coldly and sits down, apparently as unconcerned as if the adjoinin' box was vacant. Dolores immediately begins to read her

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 program like she's determined to learn it by heart. Don Miguel failed to return the Kid's bow, but to our great surprise he tips his silk hat to Beatrice Brown, which give him a kind of scornful smile and a chilly "Good afternoon!"

"Where did you meet that guy?" I ask Beatrice, whilst Ptomaine and Kid Roberts is arrangin' the details of a bet on the game.

"Who—that John with the cab driver's hat in the next box?" says Beatrice airly. "Why, he stores himself at the hotel. He's a Cuban or one of them dizzy foreigners, and"

"Don Miguel is a guest at our hotel?" butts in Kid Roberts in a low voice, overhearin' this tidbit.

"Don which?" says Beatrice surprised. "If you mean that egg next to us, he's down on the books as Juan Ybarra, and if he's a Don he's been holdin' out on me! He's been tryin' to make me for the past three weeks, but he's just a bum guesser, that's all. I don't go out with no fellows which looks you over like he does. I pick my boy friends!"

The Kid is now double convinced that this Spaniard is all wrong, and he tells Beatrice to find out all she can about him. Tickled to be of any use, Beatrice promises to have the low-down on this baby within a few days. Just leave matters to her, she says, and she'll make Mr. Don talk himself into all the grief in the world. That's somethin' she can do to any masculine, adds Bee, and after a long look at her I would of laid a hundred to one that she was statin' nothin' but facts!

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 About the middle of this ball game there was a excitin' little coincident come to pass which must of made Dolores very thoughtful.

A ball is batted plumb into the box where Dolores and the Don is sittin', and in the scramble to get it the Don is lucky. He takes out a fountain pen, writes somethin' on the cover of the ball, and presents it to Dolores with a bow and a flourish. Watchin' out of the corner of his eye, Kid Roberts grits his teeth. A few minutes afterward a special copper comes up lookin' for the lost ball, like they always do. Ptomaine Joe, which has been mutterin' and glarin' at Don Miguel ever since the fair Beatrice cracked about the Don pesterin' her, grabs the cop's sleeve and points out the Don as the shoplifter. Mr. Cop taps him on the shoulder, and when the man from Spain turns around angrily he looks right into a Tenth Avenue scowl and a request for the baseball.

"Go away, creature!" frowns Don Miguel, excitedly brandishin' his shoulders. "I have not your property. I am a nobleman, and this is an insult! I will sue"

The copper grabs the Don by the collar, and they commence strugglin' hithers and you all over the box, whilst everybody within eyesight forgets about the ball game to watch what might be a two-handed scrap. Kid Roberts, at first enjoyin' the thing, sees that Dolores is on the brink of death from mortification, and he steps right into the breach.

"Just a moment, officer," says the Kid, layin' a hand on the copper's shoulder. Friend Cop swings around ready to take on all corners, but the second he

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 lamps the Kid his face brightens, and he shoves out his hand with a smile.

"Hello, Kid!" he says, swellin' all up like a pump and beamin' on everybody as Kid Roberts shakes with him. "Gee—you look like a million!"

Instantly the innocent bystanders cuddles closer for a flash at the famous ex-champion which has been makin' such a marvelous comeback. The ball game is now runnin' for Sweeney. On all the sides you can hear whispers; "That's Kid Roberts!" "Say, the Kid looks great, don't he?" "Roberts'll knock this Battlin' Miller for a row of Zulu jelly molds." The grinnin' copper then says if the Don is a friend of Kid Roberts he can steal the ball club's franchise and it'll be O. K. with him! The crowd laughs cheerin' Kid Roberts loudly as he sits down again.

Dolores flashed the Kid one grateful look, but the Don don't even thank him. A good scout, this Andalusian banana, what?

The very next day Beatrice Brown commences workin' on Don Miguel in a attempt to get him to spill some inside information on himself. It took about four heavy dates with him, some high-class kiddin', and deep sighs properly placed to make him come through. Then Beatrice has so much to tell us that she busts right up to our room with it, pale and tremblin' and pantin' with rage.

This big double-crossin' four-flusher had offered Beatrice Brown one thousand bucks, even, if she'd help him dope Kid Roberts on the night of his fight with Battlin Miller!Battlin' Miller! [sic]

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 Dopin' a fighter has been done and will be done now and then as long as the game goes on. It ain't near as hard a trick as it sounds—and the very fact that the average person laughs at it, and don't believe the victim, is what makes it easier!

Don Miguel had slipped the horrified Beatrice a little bottle of some goo, which he tells her she must trick Kid Roberts into drinkin' before he enters his dressin' room at Jersey City the night of the quarrel. It' work about three-quarters of a hour later, accordin' to this yellow hound, and it won't bump the Kid off by no means. In fact, it'll be a Godsend to him, says the Don, because Battlin' Miller is goin' to half kill Kid Roberts, anyways, and this potion of his will prevent the Kid from feelin' the pain. By this time Don Miguel thinks he's sitting pretty with Bee, so he likewise informs her that he expects to clean up on the fight and afterward him and her will go places. Bee says he wanted to kiss her to show his good faith, and the mere thought made her seasick. She stalled him off and says she'll think matters over and then she beat it to us.

When Beatrice stops, breathless—and she ain't no more breathless than we are—Kid Roberts pats her shoulder and tells her she's a good little girl and he won't soon forget her. The Kid takes the bottle of the Don's brew from her and sends Ptomaine Joe out with it to a chemist. Our instructions to Beatrice is brief—go right back and tell Don Miguel she has decided to accept his offer and Kid Roberts will enter the ring as goofy as all the idiots in the world!

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 A introduction to the Kid, one of his signed photos, two ringside seats for the setto with Battlin' Miller, and, last but not least, a century note, induced the bell captain to sneak me into the parlor of Don Miguel's suite when the Don was out and help me plant a dictograph there. Then we had Beatrice go up and talk his scheme over with him, repeatin' all the details and makin' the Don answer with her pretty mouth and his ugly fly trap a couple feet from where we had Mr. Dictograph hid.

So that was that!

For two or three days before the fight, Beatrice reports the Don holdin' conferences in his rooms with nearly all the sharpshooters and sure-thing gamblers around New York, and the night of the battle this educated money has made Battlin' Miller a three to one favorite, as the results of what these master minds has heard from the Don. Me and everybody connected with the Kid's camp got down hook, line, and sinker on Kid Roberts at these juicy odds. Just before we filed into the dressin' room I bet five grand for the Kid himself. The talent is set for a hog killin', but we see no reason why the hog shouldn't turn and at least bite some of 'em!

When Ptomaine Joe crawled through the ropes for his second professional scrap—the with Tornado Tate—the house was packed to the rafters with a noisy, fight-crazy mob. Two-thirds of the customers seems to remember Ptomaine's first start and they greet him accordin'ly, with the result that the inexperienced, excitable Ptomaine is pretty well licked

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 by his nerves as he stands in his corner waitin' for the bell. Without a peer as a rough-and-tumble mauler, Ptomaine Joe was a fish out of water in a ring—with rules, bells, gloves, and a referee to prevent gougin' and knifin', Once the gong rang, Ptomaine rushed wildly and landed the first blow, a glancin' left to the head, but took a terrible right uppercut in return as they come to close quarters. That's the punch which licked him! It shook Ptomaine from stem to stern, and the mob was quick to see he was in distress, rockin' the clubhouse with howls. Tornado Tate had found out all he wished to about his man and he started drivin' Ptomaine all over the ring. Another right uppercut sprawled the ex-chef on the floor, but he jumped up without waitin' for the count and gamely charged at Tate, only to go down again on all fours from a fearful right and left to the stomach. He was up again at "nine," swayin' dizzily and practically out on his feet. I reached for the sponge, but before I could toss it in Tate's carefully timed right caught Ptomaine flush on the chin. He went down like a log and was counted out, just one minute after the start of the battle. This made my glass-jawed fighter's record to date read: knocked out an even twice in exactly two starts. Not so good!

Now that the cheaper help had been quickly disposed of, the big crowd settled back comfortably to scan the twelve-round struggle between Kid Roberts and Battlin' Miller, either one a better man than the fadin' heavyweight champ in the firm opinion of half the mob at the ringside. Miller was first to enter the ring and

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 drew a big hand, but the Kid's desperate attempt to come back and regain his title appealed to the crowd's emotions and Roberts got an ovation.

The weights was announced as 194 for Kid Roberts and 196½ for Miller, who likewise seemed to have a bit more height and reach than the Kid. The Battler's muscles bulged like a wrestler's and he was as hairy as a chimpanzee, one of his trainin' methods apparently bein' not gettin' shaved for a month before the mill. Against this cave man, the Kid's white, clean-cut body stood out under the glarin' lights over the ropes till it was plain to the worst roughneck in the crowd why the sport writers had christened him "the Adonis of the ring." Miller's handlers eyed the Kid sharply when they come over to examine his bandages, prob'ly lookin' to see if the dope had worked on him yet. I winked and grinned mysteriously at 'em, and they went back to their corner lookin' serious.

At the sound of the bell Kid Roberts was out of his corner like a flash, meetin' Miller before that baby was half-ways to mid-ring. The Kid shot in two sizzlin' lefts to the face and then ripped a hard right to the body. Miller staggered, and the crowd cheered wildly. The Battler then shook his head and dove into a clinch, poundin' Roberts hard on the kidneys. He suddenly switched his attack to the head, and the Kid went back against the ropes with Miller on top of him, borin' in with both gloves workin' fast for the wind. The referee broke 'em and both missed rights to the jaw. Kid Roberts waded in again, hammerin' Miller about the body with rights and lefts. Miller appeared to be

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 hurt by this treatment and his handlers roared for him to "Bring it up!' He did—a torrid right uppercut sendin' the Kid's head back and stoppin' his charge short, but Miller missed the follow-up—a left hook—and took four stiff jabs to the nose without a return. Roberts then hooked his right to the neck, Miller counterin' smartly with a hard smash to the head.

Kid Roberts fell back a few steps and as Miller rushed in with his head lowered he shot two hard rights to that part of the Battler's chassis, one of which cut the Battler's ear. They were clinched at the gong, poundin' away merrily at each other's ribs. A round of applause greeted the boys as they run to their corners and the referee leaned down over the ropes to remark to the sport writers: "Here's two that's tryin'!"

Over in Miller's corner his handlers is spendin' as much time lookin' at us as they are in workin' over their greatly surprised leather pusher. They can't seem to understand why Kid Roberts ain't commencin' to act silly, Well, I'm ready to have him act that way now!

Miller come out cautiously for the second frame, but Kid Roberts was even more cautious, walkin' slowly to the center of the ring, his eyelids lowered and his feet draggin' after him. After studyin' the Kid for a second, the Battler took heart and jabbed lightly with his left. The punch wouldn't of cracked a china cup, but Roberts swayed back against the ropes as though hit by a batterin' ram. It looks weird to the attendance, and they yell murder, but to the gang in Miller's corner it's the tip-off! They're now certain the Kid's

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 on Queer Street and they shriek: "Now! Let him have it—give him everything, Miller!"

Then the fireworks started!

With a confident grin on his face, Miller again jabbed with his left, then crossed a wicked right to the jaw. The Kid broke the force of the punch by rollin' his head with it and countered with a weak right that missed by a foot. Miller nearly laughed out loud as he drove Roberts to a neutral corner, sprayin' him with lefts and rights to the head. With the ropes scrapin' against his back and the house in a uproar, Kid Roberts looked over Miller's shoulder to me, and I nodded.

Instantly Kid Roberts straightened up and took a lot of ambition out of Miller with a right hook that wobbled the Battler's knees. Amazed at this turn of affairs, Miller tried to clinch, but the Kid shook him off and dropped him to one knee with a murderous right over the heart. The din from the crowd drowned out the referee's count, but watchin' his risin' and fallin' arm, Miller was up at "eight," badly dazed and punch-drunk. Roberts rushed, ducked a wild right swing and sent Miller back on his heels with a straight left to the mouth. Another left to the same place crashed the Battler against the ropes to rebound into a right uppercut that almost tore his head off his shoulders. Kid Roberts stepped quickly away and Miller sank to the floor, through for the evenin'! His dumfounded handlers dragged the carcass to their corner, and, after shakin' his limp gloved hand, the Kid sprung lightly through the ropes whilst the crowd cracked the paint with cheers. Beyond a slightly puffed lip, Kid Roberts

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 ain't got a mark on him, but it was ten minutes before Battlin' Miller was able to leave the ring.

When we bust through the millin' mob into our dressin' room, we're brought up short inside the door by a amazin' spectacle. Ptomaine Joe has got no less than Don Miguel Espinosa backed against the wall. Ptomaine is amusin' himself by takin' free swings at the frantic Spaniard, deliberately missin' him by the fraction of a inch each time.

"Hello, people!" grins Ptomaine pleasantly. "I was waitin' till you guys come in before beatin' this egg into a jelly! I"

"What are you doing here, sir?" butts in Roberts sternly, lookin' dynamite at the unhappy Don.

"This—this animal brought me here by force!" chokes the Don, glarin' at Ptomaine. "I will have you all arrested! I"

"Aw, shut up, you big mock orange!" I cut him off. "You won't have nobody pinched—what d'ye think of that? I got a good mind to let Ptomaine knock you off! Beatrice Brown is ready to testify that you wanted to dope Kid Roberts to-night, and if that ain't enough I had a dictograph planted in your room all the time you was talkin' to her and them gamblers. By the way, them birds thinks you deliberately double-crossed 'em, and they're out for your hide!"

Don Miguel is whiter than a dollar's worth of milk and seems to have a bad attack of the ague. Kid Roberts's grim face relaxes as he looks at him, and his lips curl in a sneer of contempt. Then he shrugs his

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 shoulders and starts in to dress, payin' no further attention to the tremblin' Don.

"I—I—will leave the city at once and never return if you will open that door and let me go," he stammers. "I swear it! Sapristi—that terrible woman!"

Ptomaine Joe's eyes become slits. "Which terrible woman?" he asks carelessly.

"That Brown woman of the hotel!" says the Don. "May she—"

Sock!

Reachin' over my shoulder, Ptomaine knocked Mr. Don Miguel Espinosa as cold as a pawnbroker's smile. Then he coolly leans over and looks at his prey carefully:

At was a sweet punch," he remarks, in a well-satisfied voice. "A darb! This jobbie will be out for half a hour. Now, how the hell is it I can't do that in a ring?"

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from the fatal error of forgettin' he's wed when steppin' out in mixed company, one of the biggest mistakes a married man can make is to think the game is all over when him and his blushin' br-and-new spouse trips gayly away from the altar. When the excitement of the honeymoon has died down you got to begin in earnest to make her, to pay serious attention to her various unreasonable wishes and court her with twice the enthusiasm you did before grabbin' her off, or Mr. Love leaves you flat on your shoulder blades!

Followin' the Kid's defeat of Battlin' Miller and Don Miguel Espinose, Dolores shoved off on a speechmakin' tour of the gals' political clubs. I can't see no good reason why the Kid's family troubles should interfere with business, so I sign articles to fight him against Bob Young, which was poisonin' the heavies all over the land, fifteen rounds or less to a decision at Syracuse, N. Y. But Kid Roberts, worryin' over Dolores, couldn't seem to get no thoughts of boxin' to enter his broodin' mind. He went around like a guy in a trance, with a far-away and long-ago look in his eyes and a muttered answer to every question.

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 He trained with no more ambition than you'll find in a tribe of snails. The old pep was gone and amazed sparrin' partners punched him around to their hearts' content. I rode him night and day, but I might as well of bawled out a dead man. Less than three weeks before the quarrel he was as soft and flabby as a piece of liver and just about as dangerous to a sweet puncher like this Young, which I'd seen go and knew to be lots of scrapper. I can't do nothin' with the Kid and I'm set to cancel the fight to save him from enterin' the ring a set-up, when Lady Luck puts on the ice for the rest of the world and commences to flirt with me. As usual, with the ladies, I got the worst of it!

One day, as warm as the vestibule to Hades, me and Kid Roberts is walkin' down Broadway with Ptomaine Joe. We're broilin' in our own fat, what I mean, as we pound perspirin'ly along them sizzlin' pavements, sinkin' to our ankles in the asphalt at street crossin's, which is as hot as only Gotham asphalt can get in July. All of a sudden a big foreign automobile draws up to the curb and a hearty voice sings out:

"As I live and breathe, Kane Halliday!"

We stop short, and Kid Roberts swings around swiftly, starin' at a classy, swell-dressed young bozo which is at the wheel of this horseless carriage smilin' at him. At first the Kid looks puzzled, but a answerin' grin soon spreads across his handsome face. He steps over to the curb, and the two of 'em shakes each other's hands off, whilst me and Ptomaine imitates a background. We ain't got long to wait, though, because the Kid calls us over.

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 "Devereaux," he says to the stranger, "shake hands with two of the best. Joe Murphy, my manager and guardian; Ptomaine Joe, my trainer. Boys, this is Devereaux Winston-Logan, a former classmate and a disgustingly wealthy friend of mine!"

Logan smiles and gives us each a grip. As usual, Ptomaine has got to speak out of turn.

"Howdy, Mister Logan," says this master mind, with a goofy grin on his homely pan, "how is all your little berries comin' along!"

Kid Roberts and Logan frowns for a instant. Then Logan slaps his hands together and chuckles. "Not bad!" he says to the Kid. "Logan berries, eh? Your man is quite a comedian, isn't he?"

"A second Chaplin," I butt in, sneerin' at Ptomaine. "You ought to see the witty falls this dizzy Boob can do once he puts the gloves on and gets in a ring! Don't mind him, Mister Logan, he don't know what it's all about."

At's what you think!" says Ptomaine. "I know what I'm doin' when I take them dives, and if you figure I don't you're crazy! If I stayed up, I'd get clouted, wouldn't I? Believe me, I'm usin' my head all the time—I'm a student, what I mean. I'd just as soon get knocked cold in Round One as I would in Round Twenty; it's less wearin' on a guy's face! C'mon, let's go places. I want to step down to some beach and do a piece of bathin'. Believe me, I swim a nasty ocean!"

"That's the proper place to be on a day like this," agrees Logan and turns to Kid Roberts. "What on

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 earth are you doing in New York in this beastly heat?" he asks him. "You look frightfully peaked, Kane. What you need is a change of scene, and I'm the little white-haired boy who can furnish it. I had to run down here on business, and my nice, cool, comfortable yacht is out in the breezy Hudson. Hop aboard with me and laugh at Mr. Humidity!"

"That's a good thought!" pipes up Ptomaine. "Let's check out of this slab and go with your boy friend, Kid."

"Get back in line, Stupid!" I says. "Did anybody ask you to board any nice, cool, comfortable yachts?"

"But I meant to ask," smiles Logan, which seems to get quite a kick out of Ptomaine. "I have a little place on an island about twenty miles off the coast of Massachusetts, and, Kane, at this time of the year, it's a veritable paradise! You'll find a lot of people there you know, or who know you, and every comfort known to civilized man. The fishing and bathing are excellent, we have an eighteen-hole golf links, first-class tennis and handball courts and a beautiful dancing casino, where several times a week professional entertainers procured from a Boston vaudeville agency help kill any hours that have a tendency to drag. What say?"

"I'll say it's the weasel's waistcoat!" hollers Ptomaine, without nobody askin' him. "Try and keep me away!"

Logan is full of enthusiasm, and Kid Roberts looks up with a longin' gleam in his tired eyes.

"It certainty sounds attractive, old man," he says.

"But, you see, I'm in training for a bout and—"

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 "The very reason you should come up with me!" interrupts Logan. "That settles it! Why, man, there isn't another place in the world where you could condition yourself under such ideal surroundings. Bring your training apparatus and your merry men along and I'll put them all up. The fresh, pure air with the tang of salt in it, bathing in the bluest ocean you ever saw, and occasional social relaxation among your own class will have you in shape in no time to put up the battle of your life!"

He rattles on excitedly, findin' the Kid a good listener and Ptomaine a hungry one. The more Logan talked the more I warmed up to his proposition. In the worried frame of mind Kid Roberts was in then I figured it would work wonders with him if I could get him out of hot, sultry New York, away from rubbin' elbows in the smelly gyms with the various tenth-rate hams in trainin' there and take him where he could mix for a while with his own people. Besides that, from the way Logan described this island, it sounded like a perfect place to ready the Kid for Bob Young. I chimed in with Logan and added some arguments of my own till Kid Roberts, already crazy to go, though he tried not to show it, give in and we sailed away for the mysterious island at daybreak the next a. m.

Well, after a rough trip on the boundin' main which was spent by me and Ptomaine Joe in a noble but useless attempt to get unseasick, we tied up at Logan's island and Kid Roberts lost no time fittin' in smoothly to the life of the place. The island was all Logan

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 claimed it to be, and the Kid hadn't been there a week when he was the same as a new man. The healthy color came back to his pale cheeks, his long missin' appetite joined him again and the deep dark hollows under his eyes disappeared like magic. But best of all was the way he snapped into his trainin'. I pitched our camp as near the beach as I could, with the ring practically right on it, where we'd get the best of the zippy breezes from the rollin' ocean. There Kid Roberts skipped rope, punched air and sand bags, pulled the weights, throwed the medicine ball, did his army settin'-up exercises, shadow boxed, wrestled and slammed his sparrin' partners around with all his old-time pep. In fact, the boy got to be such a glutton for work that I had to time him carefully and ease him up after a few days for fear he'd overdo matters and leave his fight in the gym.

The gang on the island treated Kid Roberts royally, they did for a fact. All of 'em had $9.85 for every wave which sloshed up on the sand there, and most of 'em knew the Kid's father and what his family had meant before the crash. The tired business men and Wall Street rajahs amongst the old boys couldn't do enough to make his stay there somethin' to remember with delight, whilst the male and female flappers looked on him like he was some kind of a god, no foolin'! The Kid managed to fit in a few tennis and golf games with his gym workouts, and whenever he hit the casino he was mobbed by the gals which figured him the greatest dancer since St. Vitus.

Well, they packed our trainin' quarters every day

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 watchin' the Kid do his stuff, and, seein' a royal chance to pick up expenses, I wanted to put the bee on these babies for four bits a head, but Kid Roberts wouldn't let me charge 'em a dime. A sinful waste of a legitimate chance to grab off a couple of grand!

The presence of the famous Kid Roberts sold these guys the idea they was athaletes, and a flock of 'em had a hobby of turnin' out in their bathin' suits at six a m to join the Kid in his road work, a ten-mile gallop around the island—that is, Kid Roberts clicked off ten miles, but a half mile of the pace the Kid set was about all these other birds could stomach. We left these puffin', pantin', everfed, and underexercised millionaires stretched on the beach all along the route, gaspin' like freshly hooked fish. At their own request, I laid out a simple daily loosenin' up routine for 'em, makin' it light so's not to kill 'em, and they went through it each mornin' like it was against the law not to do it. Say, when we left that island I had everybody's card and if I ever promote a gym of my own I'll be sittin' pretty.

Nearly all the young fellows was crazy to box with Kid Roberts, if only to be able to brag around their clubs that they once had the gloves on with him. Always anxious to please, the Kid sparred with a few of 'em, handlin' 'em like he'd handle eggs and tryin' to teach 'em the kindergarten lessons of the game without changin' their profiles.

Well, it was this clownin' with the gloves which first started the trouble. Amongst Logan's friends which had a yen to box with Kid Roberts was a jobbie entitled

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 Richmond Daniels, a husky six-footer which had knocked everybody dead as a amateur leather pusher and looked capable of givin' the best of the professionals a tough ten minutes. It was easy to see he was highly regarded as a puncher by all on the island, includin' himself, and till Kid Roberts stepped into the picture the rest of 'em had thought Daniels was the terrapin's telephone.

Bein' one of these four-flushin' loud-mouthed, upstage babies which hates themselves, Daniels liked this state of affairs the same way he liked arsenic. With a sneer on his pan as he stood around with the others watchin' Kid Roberts work out, he'd point out imaginary faults in the Kid's defence and criticize his condition till I got red-headed listenin' to him and only testrained myself from bawlin' him out by usin' control I copied from Job. A couple of times I overheard this boloney break down and confess that he'd of been heavyweight champ himself should he ever of had to fight for a livin'. The flock of yes-men which always surrounds these rich sapolios like flies surrounds a pie counter would agree with him, beggin' him to put on' the gloves with Kid Roberts just to show him up.

Daniels was a trouble maker, and I don't crave trouble makers around a trainin' camp. I didn't want Kid Roberts to box him if there was any way to prevent it because I was afraid this Daniels might know just enough to force the Kid to stop him, and it was a cinch that a knockout of one of Logan's pals would make us as popular as smallpox. I give the Kid my

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 views on the subject and suggested barrin' the public from the camp hereafter on the grounds that we was entitled to some secrecy whilst readyin' for a scrapper as good as Bob Young. In that way we wouldn't have to box Daniels, which I was satisfied was goin' to try and put over a fast one at his earliest convenience. Kid Roberts laughed me off. It's all fun, he says, and, besides, Daniels is a gentleman and gentlemen don't do that kind of stuff.

Applesauce!

Just two days after I warned Kid Roberts, Mr. Daniels made his bid. There was a unusually big mob packed around our ring on the beach with plenty of swell-lookin' Cuteys amongst 'em and very eye-fillin' they was as they stood there in their exceedin'ly scant bathin' suits just as they come from the ocean. Kid Roberts gives 'em a generous performance, windirt up a busy hour by light sparrin' with two or three young huskies which wanted to strut their stuff before their admirin' girl friends. He let 'em make a showin', takin' all kinds of chances with them big burlies in doin' it, and when the last guy left the ring mid the loud applause of his friends the Kid was a very tired boy and more than willin' to call it a day.

I see this Daniels push to the front of the crowd and take a long look at Kid Roberts, sprawled back on his stool with his head and shoulders restin' on the top ropes, his perspirin' chest risin' and fallin' like an exhausted runner's. Steppin' up to the ropes, Daniels tapped the Kid's arm to get his attention, just as I shoved my way over.

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 "Care to box a round or so with me—eh—Roberts?" says Daniels, like he's speakin' to his valet.

Kid Roberts gazes around at him and hesitates, whilst the crowd gets much interested and moves up closer so's not to miss nothin'. In each face there's a "This is goin' to be good!" expression. So I stepped to the fore, motionin' the glarin' Ptomaine to keep quiet.

"To-morrow!" I says to Daniels, before the Kid can answer. "To-morrow, sonny, we'll be tickled to fill your order, but the store's closed up for to-day. Be sure to be on time, because you're one fellow I want to see waited on!"

"Now, Joe—" begins Kid Roberts, frownin' at me.

But Daniels laughs a nasty laugh, lookin' meanin'ly at the mob and then back at the Kid, which air't answered him yet.

"Why the big silence?" he sneers. "I should think you'd welcome a chawnce to improve your speed by boxing one who knows at least the rudiments of the art, instead of this daily hippodrome with clumsy and unskilled sparring partners who are mere human punching bags!"

"Cut yourself a piece of cake!" yells Ptomaine, takin' this as a personal insult. "What d'ye mean I'm clumsy? You better not choose me, brother, or the best you'll get is a lot of grief. C'mon in here—I'll give you all the boxin' you can handle, you big mock orange!"

Some of the gals commences to move away a bit nervously, and there's quite a murmur from the crowd.

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 The Kid's friend Logan looks worried and uncomfortable, but likewise sore at Daniels.

"Oh, I say, Daniels," he bursts out, "I think this is a bit unnecessary!"

"Think what you choose!" says this bozo, with a sarcastical smile. Then he glares from the Kid to Ptomaine. "Since the gentleman very plainly does not care to risk boxing me, I shall be pleased to administer a thorough thrashing to his insolent servant!"

"Jake with me!" says Ptomaine, gleefully. "Come right in, Dizzy, and I'll poke you loose from 'at bathin' suit!"

Daniels promptly puts his hands on the ropes and vaults over, all business. This looks bad, and the innocent bystanders is on the verge of perishin' from surprise and excitement. Whilst the other handlers is lacin' gloves on Ptomaine and Daniels, the amazed Kid Roberts and me is doin' some fast thinkin', One thing is certain, and that is that we can't let them two babies step by no means! One or the other is as positive to go out cold as rain is positive to be wet. The Kid makes up his mind quickly and gets off the stool.

"Take those gloves off, Ptomaine!" he says sharply, and then turns to Daniels. "All right," he smiles pleasantly, speakin' to him for the first time, "I'll box you!"

The Ptomaine looked so disappointed I thought he was goin' to bust out cryin', and I glanced quickly at Daniels to see how that bird was takin' this sudden change of program. To my great surprise, he looked highly pleased, but I didn't, as I

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 sized him up standin' there tappin' his gloves together after one swift confident wink at the crowd. In the matter of height, weight, and reach there was little to choose between him and Kid Roberts. The Kid had a big edge in experience, of course, but he was tired and winded from his long workout whilst Daniels was fresh. He looked like he could take it, and he looked like he could hit!

"Be careful of your hands," I whispered to Kid Roberts. "Remember, that Young fight is less than ten days off now, and we don't want no accidents. Leave his jaw alone and go after him down below. You'll have to take this fellow sooner or later, so you might as well knock him off right now!"

"I'll do nothing of the sort," says the Kid. "I don't want to hurt him or make him ridiculous before his friends. I'll stall him off for a couple of rounds and then you stop it."

I stopped it just two minutes later!

The second I rang the bell, a duty I took on divah Daniels shot across the ring and hit the Kid on the chin with a stiff straight left before Roberts could get his hands up. The crowd roared, and the Kid slowly backed away, Daniels followin' and sneerin'ly invitin' him to open up and fight. Kid Roberts kept his temper and ducked a couple of wild rights, counterin' with a light left jab. Daniels tore in with both hands workin' fast and cleverly. He put a right and left to the head that had lots of stuff behind 'em and they clinched. Kid Roberts had no trouble smotherin' this bird's attempts at infightin', a trick at which he could

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 of ruined Daniels, as Roberts was a past master at that game!

Infuriated at his lack of success, Daniels brought the heel of his glove across the Kid's face as they broke from the clinch and some of the crowd hissed. Kid Roberts returned this foul with a short right hook under the heart that brung a gasp from Daniels, and he missed a right swing by a foot, leavin' himself wide open, but the Kid didn't want to stop him and backed away, still cool and smilin'.

Daniels steadied and drove another right to the jaw, which Kid Roberts blocked, clinchin' again to keep Daniels out of mischief. The millionaire scrapper tried to rough matters in the clinch and went right up in flames when he found the Kid could handle him like a baby. Daniels suddenly ducked his head and then snapped it up in a vicious butt that caught Kid Roberts flush on the right eyebrow and opened it to the bone! The gore spurted out and blinded the Kid, coverin' both of 'em with a crimson shawl. Over the howls of the crowd come some shrieks from the fair sex, as I clanged the bell a half dozen frantic times.

At the first sound of the gong, the Kid dropped his hands, but the sight of blood seemed to drive Daniels crazy. He swung his right to the Kid's unprotected head and Roberts crashed into the ropes. Daniels was measurin' the badly dazed Roberts for another haymaker, when me and the cussin' Ptomaine leaped into the ring and grabbed him.

"Get out of here, you big tramp!" I bawled. "You come near this camp again and I'll cook you!"

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 "By Gad, you butted him, Daniels!" comes the angry voice of Logan. ILogan. "I [sic] saw you! I thought you were more of a sportsman than—"

"But your grandmother!" laughs Daniels nastily, lookin' to the pop-eyed crowd for applause. "I hit him with a right-hand punch, as he well knows. But that's the traditional excuse of the prize fighter hurt in training—he was butted by an awkward sparring partner. Bah!"

"It's all right, old fellow," puts in Kid Roberts, whilst me and Ptomaine is cleanin' and bandagin' the cut. "I know it was an accident."

"Very well, if you choose to call it that," says Daniels coolly. "However, any time you'd like to continue our little bout, you'll find me ready!"

With that he climbs through the ropes and vanishes in the crowd, which melts away like fried ice. Kid Roberts looks after him thoughtfully.

"Joe," he says to me, "I think you were right about that chap. He's a bad egg!"

It took four stitches to close the Kid's eyebrow, and that removed boxin' from his trainin' program for the next week. He wanted to wear a head guard and keep on with his regular routine, but I was takin' no chances till the cut was full healed. I could of been sent to the gallows for what I was thinkin' about this Richmond Daniels and I would of went there with a smile could I of carried my thoughts about him into effect! If there's anything I loathe, next to fried parsnips, it's these big mugs which insists on workin' out with a first-class fighter when the latter's in trainin'. There's

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 nothin' good connected with 'em! If the fighter lets go and smacks 'em down, why, the fighter's nothin' but a big bully which took advantage of a amateur. On the other hand, if they make any kind of showin' with the fighter, the fighter's a big overrated false alarm!

Anyways, this temporary let-up in the daily grind give us some time on our hands, so when Logan asks us over to the dancin' casino we're easily led. They got a tabloid revue on tap there which they have brung down from the land of Boston for the week to help these rich millionaires shoo away Mr. Dull Care. This frolic was one of them girl-and-music things and the feature is a give-me—your-kind-applause patriotic pageant in which Rita King, the only one of the troupe I'll ever remember, took off Columbia.

Miss Rita King was one of these blond disturbances, which would wreck the peace of a old men's home. She could do more with her eyes than Columbus could of done with airplanes at his disposal, and when she smiled it was just a case of hold everything, get me? She did the plurality of the dancin' and singin' in the show, and whilst her voice would never cause no panic in the Metropolitan Opera House, her dancin' would of delighted Nero. Her little feet just seemed to giggle, what I mean!

Well, after catchin' the show the first night, we formed the pleasant habit of droppin' in at the casino pretty regularly with Logan. It was harmless fun and kept the Kid's mind off broodin' too much about his family troubles and his comin' battle with Bob Young.

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 Like usual, Ptomaine Joe went double cuckoo over Rita after his first dazed look, and the antics of that big sapolio in tryin' to make her would of forced a guffaw out of amummy. The girl not being a lunatic, Ptomaine failed to click, and no more did our old pal Richmond Daniels, which did everything but kidnap her off that casino stage!

How the so ever, there was one baby on that island which seemed to make Rita thoughtful from the instant her marvelous eyes rolled in his direction, and that was Kid Roberts. She gets Logan to bring her over to our table and introduce her after the show one night, and after that it was a case of try and keep her away! I guess Rita had never met up with no box fighters before which looked like a collar ad, spoke with a Yale accent, and wore a tux after dark when not in the ring.

The behavior of the other two rivals for the charmin' Rita's attentions, when they seen her openly settin' sail for Kid Roberts, was decidedly different. Ptomaine took it out in mopin' and mutterin', but Daniels came right to a boil! He watched the Kid and Rita playin' around with the same identical expression on his pan that a lion wears whilst stalkin' a sheep, and a half dozen times when Rita would pass his table on the ways to ours after the revue, he'd stop her, and out of the corner of my eye I'd see them arguin' heavy. Practically the entire island, includin' the revue bunch, went bathin' together in the mornin's, and somehow Rita and the Kid always seemed to be paired off. It was the same when Logan or somebody else would

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 throw a party, or in these tennis settos, or, in fact, anything at all. And all the time this Daniels watches—hard-faced and scowlin' and with a grim, dangerous, waitin' air about him which got on my nerves!

Well, I seen no percentage in the thing for Kid Roberts. I figured the more he's in Rita's company the harder it's goin' to be to just call it a summer flirtation and laugh this eye-soother off when the troupe leaves the island. I know darn well that the Kid's still in love with his wife, even if she has put on the ice for him and I don't want him to do nothin' he'll ever afterward regret. So as there never was or never will be no tact connected with me, I went right to the point—Rita!

"Miss King," I says to her one day when I get her alone on the beach, "I'm goin' to tell you somethin' which will no doubt win me a slap right in the face!" I don't let her swift look of alarmed surprise even slow me up, but stumble right on. "Kid Roberts is a married man and very much in love with his bride. He may think he ain't when he gazes on you, but nevers the less he is, get me? I know him better than you do—better than he knows himself. Now, listen, this is cold turkey! I think you're level, and I like you. But—this here flirtation which you're stagin' with my battler is causing him to neglect his trainin' for a tough fight, a fight he'll lose if he ain't right when he steps in that ring! It's causin' bad feelin' between Kid Roberts and this Daniels—in fact, them babies is at the point right now where a mere out-of-the-way glance from either of 'em would start the fireworks. If them guys battle

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 over you, it's goin' to ruin your reputation and likewise the Kid's, on account of the odd angle of him bein' married. Now if—"

But, to my amazement, she has suddenly bust out cryin'!

A half hour later Rita has told me a strange story, and we have shook hands on a equally strange agreement.

It seems Rita knew Richmond Daniels long before she ever came down to the island with the show and this millionaire mug had been tryin' to sheik her for months. Rita claims she hates Daniels, but is afraid of him, and then she tells me why. Accordin' to her, she'd went to dinner in New York with him a short time before, and for dessert he slipped a nifty diamond ring on her finger. Naturally, there was a proposal went with this little gift, but it ain't a proposal of matrimony, so Rita indignantly refuses to take the gem. How the so ever, she can't get it off her finger in the restaurant and she has to wear it home. That night whilst usin' soapsuds to remove the ring, the darn thing slips off and disappears down the drain of the wash-bowl. There you are—that was Rita's story, and from the straightforward, level-eyed way she told it, somehow I believed her. As a matter of fact, I lost a ring that way once myself.

"But the baffled Daniels tells Rita her statements with regards to the missin' ring is applesauce. The cheap squawker barked and meowed something scandalous, threatenin' this poor little pulse-quickener with the Bastile if she don't come across with his gem, five

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 hundred bucks, or—herself! That was the top-off on this guy, eh? Rita ain't got the ring or the five hundred, and that's all of his proposition she has even considered. Meanwhile Daniels has told her if he don't get service he'll have her chased off the island and collared the minute she gets back to Boston.

Well, after givin' matters plenty of due consideration, I made Rita a proposition myself. I says, if she'll lay off Kid Roberts, which she has candidly admitted havin' a yen for, I'll fix everything up with Daniels so's that he won't bother her no more. With a tearful sigh, Rita promises, thereby sealin' my doom!

The next night whilst the Kid's dressin' to have dinner with Logan, I wrote out a check for half a grand and slipped away from the trainin' camp on a quiet hunt for Mr. Richmond Daniels. to the casino I almost fell over him and Rita standin' in a little clearin' under a tree. There's a red-hot argument under way, but it ain't half as red-hot as I am when I see that Daniels has the girl by the arm whilst she seems to be tryin' to get away. They're so interested in each other that they don't peg me till I walk right up to them and shove the check in Daniels's face.

"Take your hands off that girl, you big stiff!" I snarl. "Here's your money—you're paid off, now beat it! What a fine oil can you turned out to be! A woman scarer, hey? Well, if I ever catch you botherin' this little girl again, I'll tell everybody on the island just what you're tryin' to do, and if that don't stop you, why, I'll stop you myself!"

Both of 'em stares in amazement, and then Daniels

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 looks me over with a sneer, whilst Rita backs away kind of frightened.

"Well, well, well!" says Daniels, after a strained second, "Another admirer, eh?" He takes my check, tears it up and throws it in my face. "Go away, you little rat!" he says, curlin' his lip. "I—"

Then I let him have it—a right swing, flush on the chin!

Daniels staggered back against the tree, and Rita give a faint scream, I had no chance with Daniels, and I knew I had no chance with him when I socked him. He'd already stood off Kid Roberts, and he was certainly too big and too good for me to cope with. I gambled everything on that first wallop stoppin' him. It didn't, and from then on I was just a catcher. He could of knocked me off at any time with a punch, but he didn't want to do that. Oh no—with a cold, sneerin' grin on his pan he just stood off and cut me to ribbons with slashin' hooks and jabs, carefully avoidin' landin' in a vital spot. In less than three minutes I'm bleedin' like a stuck pig, one eye is closed tight, and I'm flounderin' around like a drunk. I was drunk—with punishment! I don't know when Daniels got tired of the sport and put over the finisher, but I know I come to life flat on the ground and alone.

Well, there was murder in my heart when I stumbled into the camp a half hour later. After makin' sure Kid Roberts was nowheres in sight, my first act is to rout out Ptomaine Joe, the man mountain. Ptomaine was engaged in his favorite exercise, poundin' his ear, but one glance at me and he's plenty wide awake. I shut

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 off his excited questions by swiftly tellin' him what had happened, gettin' some satisfaction from the roar of rage he let loose.

I reminded Ptomaine I had started him twice in a praiseworthy effort to make him a box fighter, and though he had been a fearful bust each time, he'd been well paid for his efforts. Now I wanted him to fight for nothin'. Fight at his own game—rough and tumble, longshoreman, stuff, where everything goes and the man which happens to slip loses! At that kind of thing, without seconds, gloves, bell, or rules, Ptomaine Joe had no equal, and he licked his lips eagerly when I told him I expected him to take this Daniels or else go back to the lumber camp where I found him!

We're just startin' out when Kid Roberts comes along with his pal, Logan. They're bound for the casino, where everybody goes at night on this excitin' island. I tried to draw back in the shadows where he wouldn't see my dilapidated features, but he did.

"Good heavens, Joe!" he gasps. "Who—what happened to you?"

"I—eh—I fell off a cliff in the dark!" I mumbled, pinchin' Ptomaine's arm for silence.

I didn't want Kid Roberts to know Daniels had manhandled me, for a great many good reasons. I knew the hot-tempered Kid, which loved me like a brother, would of dashed right off and broke Daniels in half, and I didn't want that bird killed. I just wanted him half killed, which I figured Ptomaine, fightin' his own way, would do to the queen's taste. Then again, sore

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 as I was, I didn't care to have Kid Roberts risk breakin' his hands on Daniels with a big fight only a short time off. I have never yet got so mad that I forgot business!

Well, of course, Kid Roberts believes I fell off a cliff the same way he believes in Santy Klaus, but he don't question me further, prob'ly figurin' I'll explain matters in a day or so. He wants to know can he do anything and I says no thanks and after another searchin' worried look at me he goes out and joins Logan. Then me and Ptomaine sets forth to mark Mr. Richmond Daniels "Paid!"

Takin' a short cut to the casino, we get there before Kid Roberts and Logan. I parked Ptomaine outside with instructions to say nothin' to nobody and to duck if he seen the Kid comin', whilst I went in to find our prey. I nailed Daniels leanin' against the rail of the porch, alone. He removes a cigarette from his mouth to greet me with a wicked grin, lookin' over my battered pan with satisfaction.

"Your face looks terrible!" he remarks, coolly. "It's an offence to the eye. You should remain indoors until it heals, my man."

"Inside of half a hour you'd be more than willin' to trade your own face for mine, Mister," I says, grimly, "because yours is goin' to be retreated immediately. There's a friend of mine a little nearer your size waitin' outside. Let's go!"

"Kid Roberts?" asks Daniels, eagerly. He straightens up and tosses away the cigarette.

"Be yourself!" I snort, scornfully. "The Kid would

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 kill you! You'll have a chance with Ptomaine—for a second! Look at him, you big four flusher, don't he look tasty?"

I grabbed his arm and swung him half-ways around so's he could see the impatient Ptomaine outside, loomin' up in the dusk like the rock of Gibraltar. Daniels gazed, frowned and throwed off my arm.

"If you think I have any intention of engaging in a brawl with a tenth-rate pugilist, you're crazy!" he says. "Stand aside!"

"Listen, Daniels," I says, plantin' myself in front of him as he tried to pass into the casino, "you had your fun with me, now it's my turn! Either you come down to the camp and fight Ptomaine or I'll bring him right up here on this porch. I"

"Oh, come on then!" he butts in savagely. "After I've sent all of this alleged gentleman boxer's retainers back to him on a shutter, I'll do the same for him!"

With that he vaults the railin' and me after him.

It was a strange procession which started down to the camp on the beach in the dazzlin' moonlight. Daniels stridin' ahead of us and not a word spoken all the ways down till I asked Ptomaine if he told anybody outside the casino what we was goin' to do.

"Only Rita King," grins Ptomaine. "I told her I was goin' to knock her rich boy friend for a row of bath houses!"

"You dumb-bell!" I hissed. "She'll tell the world and the bunch from the casino will rush down and stop it!"

"Then we better start now!" says Ptomaine, "I'll begin by breakin' his nose!"

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 He calls to Daniels. Daniels stops and Ptomaine walks up to him.

"You big yellah tramp," remarks Ptomaine, in a easy conversational tone, "I'm goin' to pound you into a jelly! You won't beat up no more guys half your size or hound no girls when"

Sock!

With the speed of a strikin' rattlesnake, Daniels's right fist shot from his hip and caught Ptomaine square on the mouth. It was a terrible punch—unexpected, perfectly measured and with two hundred pounds of muscle and bone behind it. It would of rocked Dempsey. It dropped Ptomaine as if he'd been hit with a axe. There was no question about whether or not he was out, but there was some doubt as to whether or not he was dead!

"Next!" sneers Daniels, wipin' his skinned knuckles with a silk handkerchief.

"Here!" comes a familiar voice, choked with rage—and Kid Roberts steps suddenly into the moonlight, with the white-faced Logan at his heels.

"Ah!" says Daniels, his lip curlin' as usual, "I have thrashed the manager and the sparring partner and now I shall make a job of it by thrashing the prima donna of the troupe!"

"At your service!" pants the Kid, manslaughter in each eye. "I would have accommodated you much sooner had I known you were responsible for Joe Murphy's condition. Miss King has told me—everything. Daniels, you are a despicable cur!"

Fifteen minutes later, stripped to the waist and with

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 four-ounce gloves laced on their hands, Kid Roberts and Richmond Daniels faced each other in the trainin' ring on the beach. There's no referee, no timekeeper, no handlers, no roarin', screamin' crowd of fight bugs to urge 'em on. There's nobody but me, a kind of scared Logan, a dazed and mutterin' Ptomaine Joe, a cold bright moon and a boomin' ocean. There was to be no rounds, both agreein' to go till one or the other went out stiff. Logan excitedly calls their attention to the fact that the tide is comin' in and that it rises with remarkable speed on this island. He says if they must fight, to wait till the ring can be moved up further on the beach. Neither of 'em paid him the slightest notice, though the waves was rollin' as far as their ankles when they stepped into the ring.

There was no bell—they just started to fight! Kid Roberts held out his glove to shake as they came to the center of the ring, but with a snarl like a animal, Daniels knocked it aside and shot a wicked straight left to the same eye he had cut in the trainin' bout. The stitches promptly opened and the blood came in a stream, puttin' the Kid at a serious disadvantage in the very beginnin', but he just grinned, rocked Daniels with two stiff rights to the head and the battle was on!

I have seen some spectacular box fights in my time—fights which drove hard-boiled fans crazy, that had the crowd as limp and wilted at the finish as the scrappers themselves, fights in which sensation was piled on sensation till the customers was positively hysterical, but I have yet to see one, which, takin' it from all angles, could match this one on that beach for pure

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 thrill! Here are two guys, perfectly matched, each around two hundred pounds of Grade-A fightin' machinery and fightin' blood, each a terrific hitter and a good boxer, each with murder in his heart. Sock, bam, biff, crunch! And all the time them angry waves is comin' in—higher and higher. Inside of ten minutes, they're flounderin' around in foamin' salt water swirlin' at their knees, battered, pantin' and bloody, but neither can land a decisive blow and neither will quit! Driven back to higher ground by Mr. Ocean, me, Logan and Ptomaine yells for them to call it off before they get drowned. They don't give us a tumble. A half dozen times both slipped to their knees in a desperate clinch and rolled around in the sand to be buried from sight by a extra big wave which left 'em spittin' water and gaspin' for breath when they stumbled dizzily to their feet, but—still fightin'!

The end come about five minutes after I sent Ptomaine runnin' to the casino for help to go in and tear 'em apart before they got swept out to sea. The water is now comin' above their hips with each inrush of waves. The ring posts has been uprooted and with the ropes tangled around 'em swishin' back and forth in the water to one side. Kid Roberts can only see out of his left eye, which is cut and bleedin', the right bein' closed as tight as a drum. Daniels is a sight which only a hospital interne could appreciate. He would have to be introduced to his own mother, because his face would mean nothin' to her in the shape it was in now!

As the mob from the casino come streamin' over

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 the sand dunes with Ptomaine Joe in the lead, a heavy wave swept both Daniels and the Kid off their feet. Their heads come up together, and, pawin' around, they drew themselves erect by usin' each other's body for support. They slowly backed till the water is only slappin' against their knees. Then Daniels braced himself and swung a overhand right which glanced off the Kid's head. Kid Roberts swayed and a recedin' wave throwed him forward. He punched hard as he was fallin' and Daniels staggered back from a straight right to the mouth. The ring posts is floatin' near him and he manages to get hold of one in both his gloves, wrenchin' it loose from the ropes. Crack! It comes down on the Kid's shoulder and the crowd on the beach starts yellin' and wadin' out, me and Ptomaine showin' the way. It was over before we could reach 'em! Kid Roberts ducked under another vicious swing, of the post and hooked Daniels on the button with a short inside right. Daniels staggered, dropped the post and disappeared under the waves!

Kid Roberts looks around dazed, weavin' back and forth on his feet like a drunken man. The gang from the casino mills about him, but he don't seem to see 'em. He's lookin' for Daniels. About twenty yards aut in the swells under the moon, a head bobs up. The Kid shoves away the guys which wants to help him in, shakes his head to clear it, takes a deep breath and the next second he's gone, divin' under a wave. When he showed again he's treadin' water, with the limp and unconscious Daniels in his arms.

We got a life boat out to 'em, none too soon, and they

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