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 see that the car's ready, will you, old man? I've promised Dolores I'd box two rounds with some one at the Red Cross benefit to-night. She's one of the patronesses, you know, and it will be rather a feather in her cap to have a world's champion there. They have a big card of theatrical stars, movie people, and a lot of prominent boxers. You know how these things are, one has to help. I want you to handle me yourself—this will be nothing, just an exhibition, and I'm afraid Dynamite Jackson and Knockout Burns might scare the ladies away!"

"Well—all right," I grumbled. "I guess they's no harm in helpin' the Red Cross, Kid, but this here's kind of sudden. I don't like these short-notice affairs. Who you goin' to box and—"

Kid Roberts throws back his head and laughs. "Hurricane Kenney, the Chickasha Bone Crusher!" he chortles. "He's apparently impressed this sporting writer who wrote that article about him, and I really believe the pair of them think they're slipping one over onme. Of course Kenney's challenging me has smoked the thing up so that—"

"Knock him dead the minute he puts up his hands," I butts in. "We'll get that baby all settled to-night!"

"I'm afraid I may have to stop him this time," says the Kid grimly, shakin' his head. "The poor fool. Well—come on!"

The last-minute announcement that Kid Roberts was goin' to step two rounds with Hurricane Kenney, the cowboy challenger for the championship, brought two

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 thirds of Washington out to the big auditorium where the Red Cross benefit was bein' had. By the time we had shouldered our way through the mob down into the basement where the men's dressin' room was, congressmen was out in the street fightin' with less known millionaires for the privilege of payin' two hundred bucks to stand up inside. We could plainly hear Kenney's voice in the room opposite the one we took whilst I was bandagin' the Kid's hands. I hadn't bothered to lock the door, and suddenly it opens and closes gently and when I glance quickly around at the Kid's startled exclamation, I see no less than Mrs. Kenney is inside. She's tremblin' like a shaken jelly and on the brinks of weeps. Her cute little face is the color of cream, but her eyes is feverish.

The Kid jumps up frownin'ly and throws a bathrobe around his shoulders.

"Forgive me—I—I—had to come!" pants Mrs. Kenney in a chokin' whisper. "I—Joe has sold the ranch and bet every penny we have tn the world that he will knock you out to-night!"

"Oh, the infernal ass!" gasps the Kid. "Good Heavens, what a mess! You poor girl!"

"Who did he bet with—quick!" I says. "Maybe I can—"

"It's too late!" moans Mrs. Kenney, collapsin' into a chair and hidin' her face in her hands. "I saw the man—Big Bill Henderson, they call him—who's holding the stakes. I told him everything, but it was no use. He said he would not give Joe back the money unless there wasn't any bout. There must not be a bout, do you hear?"

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 She pitied his young bride, and would not be tempted to bring sorrow into her household by any fault of hers. Her earnest prayer was, that she might not know of her existence. She had not looked on Horatio since she watched him under the shadow of the magnolia, until his barouche passsed her in her rambles some months after. She saw the deadly paleness of his countenance, and had he dared to look back, he would have seen her tottering with faintness. Mary brought water from a rivulet, and sprinkled her face. When she revived, she clasped the beloved child to her heart with a vehemence that made her scream. Soothingly she kissed away her fears, and gazed into her beautiful eyes with a deep, deep sadness of expression, which poor Mary never forgot. Wild were the thoughts that passed round her aching heart, and almost maddened her poor brain; thoughts which had almost driven her to suicide the night of that last farewell. For her child's sake she had conquered the fierce temptation then; and for her sake, she struggled with it now. But the gloomy atmosphere of their once happy home overclouded the morning of Mary's life. Clotel perceived this, and it gave her unutterable pain.

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 She jumps up off the chair and faces the Kid like she was willin' to take him on herself!

"My dear girl," says the Kid, "I would do anything in the world to help you, but if I refuse to meet your husband now I—why—I'd be the laughing-stock of the country! The ridicule would prevent me from—"

"I don't want you to refuse to meet him!" interrupts Mrs. Kenney, excitedly. "That wouldn't cure him. Joe would still think he could whip you then and he'd keep after you until you fought him! You don't know him like I do."

The Kid, pacin' up and down the room, has been castin' nervous glances at the hall. Now he stops and bends over her with a finger on his lip.

"Sssh!" he says in a low voice. "Mrs. Kenney, you will have to leave my dressing room. I'll delay the bout and try to think of some way out of this muddle for you, but you must go immediately and be careful not to be seen leaving here. You have been very indiscreet in coming here at all! Your husband is dressing in a room across the corridor, and if he heard your voice—found out you were in here—well, it is quite possible with his quick temper that he might—eh—misinterpret your visit. Please go at once."

Mrs. Kenney caught her breath in a half sob that sent my Adam's apple bobbin' around like a cork in the ocean, and the Kid's drawn face showed how deeply he was moved. She looked so little and helpless standin' there beside us two big stiffs that—oh, dammit, you know! I turned away, but out of the corner of my eye I see her edgin' slowly for the door.

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 "If—if Joe couldn't appear—out there—the bets would be off, wouldn't they?" she breathes.

I nodded.

Then—Sweet Mamma, listen!

The soft brown eyes turns hard and glitterin'. She suddenly bangs the door shut, turns the key, and lets out a ear-splittin' shriek! Almost on the instant it seemed to me, a bull's beller boomed in the hall, the door rattles, and—smash! Flounderin', sprawlin', hysterically cursin', Joe Kenney crashed through the crumbled door into the room.

Like the Kid, Kenney was in ring togs minus the gloves, a roll of soft bandage still danglin' from one hand. For a second he peered around the dressin' room like a guy walkin' from the dark into a brilliantllybrilliantly [sic] lighted hall. His little, flamin' red eyes passed over me on to his chalk-faced wife which stood silent against the wall, her face turned away from the amazed stare of the Kid.

I grabbed her arm and shook it, pointin' frantically to Kenney—tryin' to show her by signs to say somethin', explain the thing to her husband. For some reason, I couldn't talk, though my lips worked enough! She hung her head and said nothin'. With a roarin' curse, the Bone Crusher got me by the waist and throwed me the length of the room. I fell sprawlin' in a corner and then, whilst the mob waited impatiently upstairs for the world's champion and his cowboy challenger to climb through the ropes for a two-round, gentlemanly sparrin' exhibition, they fought in the dressin' room the bloodiest, most sensational battle that I, you, or anybody else ever was privileged to see and they

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 went at it the way Kenney always wanted it—with bare knuckles!

I can close my glims and see that scrap now as well as if it come off last night. Boys and girls, it was sure one for the book! They was no ring, no padded mitts, no referee to prevent foul fightin', no bell to call a brief halt, no handlers to sponge off gore or close a ugly cut.

No yellin' crowd was poundin' their seats and eggin' them babies on—they was nothin' but Kenney's wife sunk to her knees, her face buried in her arms at one end of the room and me crouched half dazed in the other, tryin' to keep cool and advise my battler, which was absolutely fightin' for his life.

Over the busted door peered a half dozen scared faces, but if they did or said anything, nobody noticed.

They was no stallin' this time, no pullin' wallops to let Kenney stay. Kid Roberts was puttin' everything he had into each punch, for the Chickasha Bone Crusher had turned killer and twice had bent the Kid over his giant's knee with both hands sunk in his white throat. Each time the gaspin' Kid had wriggled free and pounded Kenney's face to a purple jelly before the Bone Crusher bulled his way in close to grab the champ around the body with one arm and pound his ribs with the other. A wild swing caught Roberts fair on the chin and he crashed against the opposite wall, his head hittin' with a crack that wrung a scream from me. In a flash, Kenney was on him, bangin' him back and forth against the wall with little, sickenin' snarlin' grunts like a wild animal over its kill.

Half cuckoo, I jumped to my feet and pawed at the

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 Bone Crusher's wet and strainin' back. "Fight fair—you big yellah bum!" I shrieked, and it was the Kid, with a tooth-barin' snarl that equaled Kenney's own which shoved me away with a free arm. Kenney, havin' exhausted every foul means of fightin'—fair enough to him, I guess, accordin' to the rules of what brawls he'd been in—decided to butt the Kid and as he lowered his head, Roberts straightened him up with a terrific left and right, danced away from the wall and broke the Bone Crusher's nose with a solid right smash.

The ensuin' gore covered them both, and I have no doubt that by this time Kenney had went clean crazy, for he grabbed at a chair and brung it down on the Kid's shoulders, crashin' him to the floor. Had I a gat, I would of cooked Monsieur Kenney then and there! I done the best I could, by shovin' out a foot and trippin' him as he rushed to give the prostrate Kid the boots.

They both got up at the same time and stood pantin', facin' each other—a sight for a movie director. Kenney's face was a shapeless mass from which features could only be picked by guess work.

The Kid, drenched with the Bone Crusher's gore, looked almost as bad, and they was a expression on his face I had seldom seen there when he was in a ring. Forced into this mill, Roberts had took more punishment than he ever had before in his life, and his ability to take it amazed even me. He'd been manhandled, fouled and hurt, and, shakin' his blond head, he plunged into Kenney like a lean, savage wolf against a ragin' bear. For a full minute now they stood toe to toe and slugged, and few wallops went wild, though none had the steam behind them they had at first.

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 They'd both taken enough solid smashes to of ticked a dozen heavies!

A funny look of awed wonderment begin to spread over Kenney's crimson map. Slowly he begin to give ground, his one good eye blinkin' in fear and amazement. Almost twice the size of the slender Kid, he had give him everything he had—buried his fists to the wrist in that corded steel body a dozen times and the Kid was still there, givin' wallop for wallop. I forgot the fight almost in watchin' Kenney's face, and I knew I read his thoughts correct, when without hardly knowin' it, I bawled: "Now you know why he's champion, you big tramp!"

I could of swore Kenney nodded. Anyhow, he begin to back pedal desperately, and now the Kid was cool and grinnin' for the first time since the murder started. He feinted the Bone Crusher into a openin' and drove through his right to the jaw. The groggy Kenney swayed back and forth, both arms clumsily raised before his battered face, and settin' himself, Kid Roberts banged one of Kenney's own fists against his chin with another torrid right. The man mountain toppled forward into a perfectly timed uppercut, seemed to hang in the air a instant, and suddenly toppled over on his back—knocked stiff!

Gaspin', the Kid stood over him glarin' down at the lifeless hulk. He actually seemed sorry it was over!

Mrs. Kenney pulls the Bone Crusher's head into her lap and, weepin' softly, is tryin' to wipe off the gore with a one-inch handkerchief. The Kid bends down to her, his own voice shakin'.

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 "Mrs. Kenney," he says, "this is a terrible thing—but it had to be! There was no way—"

"I'm glad he was whipped," butts in the remarkable Mrs. Kenney, meetin' the Kid's eye. "Now maybe—he'll—stay—home—with—me!"

Yet when Roberts reaches down to sponge Kenney's face, she knocks his arm away.

"Let him alone!" she says fiercely and covers the Bone Crusher's face with her arms. "Go away and leave him with me. You've done enough!"

Girls is a bit odd, hey?

A announcement is made to the mob that the Kid Roberts-Hurricane Kenney bout is off—on account of Kenney havin' hurt his arm in trainin', So that was that.

Being terrible tough, the Bone Crusher is in shape to start back to dear old Chickasha with the Missus in a hour. By usin' her nut, his charmin'-wife has saved him his dough, the humiliation of gettin' a proper pastin' before the crowd, and likewise convinced him that ranchin' is a better game than fightin'. The deepest regret Kenney seemed to have when he come to was that the only time his wife had ever seen him fight was the holocaust just finished in which he run second and he remarks half mournfully to Roberts:

"She must think I'm a hell of a fighter, now!"

The Kid shook his hand warmly and told him he had gave him the hardest battle he'd had or ever hoped to have in his life. Then he turns to Mrs. Kenney.

"And now," he says, grimly, "perhaps you'll explain

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 to your husband just why you came to my dressing room this evening—and screamed!"

At this the Bone Crusher, which seemed to have forgot the cause of the muss, straightens up again and growls, his grin freezin' into a scowl at the Kid.

"Why—of course," says Mrs. Kenney, brightly, lookin' straight into the Kid's face and speakin' to her husband. "I came down here looking for your dressing room and—er—I—entered Mister Roberts's by mistake. When I saw that I was in the wrong room it gave me such a start that—I—I just—screamed from—eh—fright—that was all! I would have explained at once, but you began fighting and I had no chance."

Woof!

"Oh—aheh—I see!" grins Kenney, with a sheepish look at the Kid.

But the Kid ain't lookin' at him. Roberts is regardin' Mrs. Kenney with open admiration. She gets a slow crimson and turns her head. Kenney looks from one to the other with a puzzled frown.

"Come on!" says the Kid to me. "I've got to do some explaining myself. Throw my stuff in the grip and we'll use Kenney's room to dress."

He went out and Kenney stands lookin' at his wife for a minute. It struck me that he seemed half pleased that she had drawed that glance from the champion, though of course the poor boob didn't know what had caused it.

"He's not a bad hombre," remarks the Bone Crusher, "and he licked me fair enough—but he ain't fooled me none with his slick talk. That feller was stuck on yuh,

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 Bess. I could see it in his eyes when he looked at yuh! Guess I better get yuh home to the ranch, or I'll be losin' yuh, eh? All the punchin' I'm goin' to do hereafter, Bess, will be in connection with cows!"

Thus passed Joseph Kenney, the Chickasha Bone Crusher. . ..

Some time very late that night Kid Roberts is tellin' Miss Dolores Brewster, in a reception room off the ballroom at the Red Cross dance, that he got the bumps on his face in a auto accident and that he don't feel up to foxtrottin', but will call for her after the ball.

"Please let me explain, dear, why I didn't appear at the benefit," he's sayin'. "The most sensational thing—"

"I know all about it!" Dolores butts in, smilin'. "Mrs. Kenney—that cowboy's wife, you know—found out I was connected with the affair and came to me this afternoon. Imagine the poor little thing coming all the way from Oklahoma! She wanted to prevent the bout—told me a most pathetic story. I'll tell you about that later, but I gave her my word I would try and stop you and her husband from entering the ring to-night. I phoned all over town and couldn't find you and I felt horrid. I wish you could have seen her, Kane, she was so tragic! Well, I finally hit upon the scheme of sending a wire to your dressing room warning you not to enter the ring to-night, as the police were going to stop the exhibition on the ground that it was a prize fight. Wasn't I clever? That's what prevented the bout, wasn't it?"

"Yes!" I almost hollered, kickin' the Kid right in the ankle.

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 The Kid is still chokin', when a page sticks his head in the room.

"Telegram for Mister Roberts!" chants the boy. "Telegram for Mister Roberts!"

Curtain!

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prob'ly no other competition in the world, sportin' or otherwise, which draws a human gatherin' as miscellaneous and interestin' as a prize-fight crowd. Whilst waitin' for the gladiators to enter the bull pen the next time you go to a mill, sit back and look around at the customers, and you'll find every trade, art, gift, science, business, profession, sex, and color represented by one member at the least. Bankers and bricklayers, doctors and dock hands, millionaires and mechanics, accountants and actors, etc and etc., jostle, kid, and argue each other purple in the face over the merits of their respective favorites.

To a guy which thinks the Human Race is easily as excitin' as the one with the chariots in "Ben Hur," the crowd at a box fight is generally worth the price of admission whether the bouts themselves is quiet or riots. Taken as a mass, the fans is always with the boy which is winnin' unless his charmin' vis and vis is a large local favorite or a unusual glutton for punishment. The bird which can hit like nitroglycerine and the tough baby which adores chastisement is the twin gods of the mob. The remarkably clever but light-tappin' boxer, flittin' about the ring

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 like one of them classical dancers to avoid the gruel, and the faint-hearted or glass-jawed bimbo which can't take it and dives into a clinch when shook up, is the pair the gang wants assassinated, and them two gets the raspberry from the minute they're introduced to the attendance till they sneak or are carried from the ring.

The quaint custom of givin' the raspberry to a unpopular boxer prob'ly originated at the ringside of the One Round David-Knockout Goliath battle, which terminated in Dave knockin' his heavier opponent's head off and thereby becomin' one of the first world's champion scrappers. For the benefit of them which thinks of the raspberry merely as a fruit, I will explain that in our set the term "raspberry" means a continual uproar of violent, insultin', uncalled for, vociferous vocal abuse. It's the nightmare of the high-strung, inexperienced fighter, and, made nasty and incessant enough, will shake the nerves of the hardest boiled veteran. It's caused scores of green kids to lose heart and go down to defeat before guys they could of knocked stiff with the greatest of ease on a vacant lot. When you have stopped a terrific right cross with your features, and drag yourself up off the canvas tryin' to peer through the crimson cascade that's drenchin' 'em, it don't assist you a particle to hear a few thousand maniacs callin' you a big burn and implorin' the other guy to murder you!

With all its faults, however, the typical American fight crowd is rarely anything more vicious than a gang of noisy, kids out havin' some fun. As a whole, it's extremely fair in its judgment. If it has

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 the human weakness of trailin' with the winner, it's also quick to resent unfair tactics and will razz its local favorite with as much enthusiasm as it will the visitin' boxer at the first sign of foul fightin', No matter how slovenly a exhibition a novice may put up, or how loudly the mob has jeered him whilst he was in there tryin', he's sure of a warm and rousin' when he leaves the ring if he's showed heart enough to stand up to his beatin' like a he-man. And with all its bedlam of "Knock him kickin', kid!" "Go on, you big dumb-bell, put him out!" etc., the gang is a soft-hearted bunch underneath. A appeal for funds for any cause in the wide, wide world made from the ring by the hoarse-voiced announcer will bring a shower of dough from all parts of the house without hesitation or question, as all our standard charities know.

You can make a interestin' study of character by lookin' over the different types around you durin' a particularly excitin' scrap. There's the guys which flinches mechanically with every thuddin' wallop that lands on the battlers, and the ones which snarlin'ly grits their teeth and shoves out their own jaw without hardly knowin' it when one of the fighters stops one with his chin; the boys which goes cuckoo and is hoarse for days afterward, and the cold-eyed babies which don't bat a eye or let a peep out of 'em no matter how thrillin' the thing gets. The blown-in-theflask fan, however, is the bird which gets as close to the ring as his bank roll will take him, beams on one and all, sits back with a sigh of undiluted joy and bawls: "Go on, you tramps, git mad and knock each other out. Less see somethin' fall!"

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 To this bozo anything short of a murder is a burn fight. He craves blood and knockdowns, or his money back. Caterin' to this type of guy's peculiar and exactin' taste almost cost Kid Roberts the world's heavyweight championship.

It seems to be a iron-bound rule in the modern American prize ring that a new heavyweight champ be allowed at least a year to stall in before defendin' his title, durin' which time he can grab off slews of sugar by appearin' on the stage and in the movies without a single moan from the only guys in a position to make him fight, to the i. e., the sport writers. Title holders in every other class has got to go to the post regularly every couple of months against a logical contender, or be roasted a rich brown in the newspapers as "cheese champions," and the etc., but the reignin' emperor of all the heavies is always apparently typewriter proof.

In the case of Kid Roberts, how the so ever, they was really no heavy in sight at the time he win the title which could of gave him as much as a brick workout. He'd flattened all the good ones on his way to the top, and it was nearly a year later before we signed to step twenty frames with Jack Enright, then a sensational newcomer. This was the first of the only two bouts the Kid ever fought as champion and his next to final battle in the ring. Meanwhile, we assassinated time by givin' exhibitions with the circus I spoke of before and appearin' in a movie at Loose Angeles, Califilmia, for more large gobs of jack. I'll tell you about the Kid's last two brawls the next time

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 we get together—this evenin's talk will be devoted to his one amazin' adventure as a movie hero.

Movie cameras shootin' at the ringside of a regular prize fight, by the way, has never made no hit with the battlers, though, of course, the sugar they get therefrom has. The presence of the camera filmin' a man's every move has a tendency to make him want to pose, and, caught off guard for a fatal second as a result, he may be knocked stiff.

On the ways out to the State where all the good little actors hope to go, the streets bein' paved with gold and all the angels wavin' movie contracts, me and the Kid is kept supplied with giggles by Knockout Burns, a tough old war horse which I brung along to keep the champion in condition. It was the first time Knockout had ever rode in a Pullman where the doors was on each end instead of the sides, and he spent most of his time on the observation platform markin' off the various slabs on his time-table as we breezed through 'em, remarkin' that like as not the engineer would hold a couple of these burgs out on him if he didn't check them up. The first night he crawled in to his upper berth he laid awake two hours waitin' for a Chink to come along with the hop layout he figured went with it, and, not bein' able to sleep, he spent the night heavin' the gallopin' dominoes with the porters, winnin' $180 by daylight. In the diner, when the waiter tells him his oysters is out in the kitchen gettin' stewed, Knockout puts forty grouches in good humor by askin' is they any objection to him goin' out in the kitchen and gettin' stewed with 'em. Goin' through Arizona, the Kid remarks that

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 we're skirtin' the largest copper State, and Knockout says he always thought the largest coppers come from Ireland. And when we hissed through Yaggy, Kansas, this dumb-bell claims that they ain't no place in the world actually had a handle like that, but that's prob'ly the name the town fights under.

This guy win the cement hairbrush, hey?

When we fin'ly docked at the Land of Flowers and Sunshine, Sweet Mamma, how the rain was comin' down! We swum out to a taxi and Knockout Burns points out the cloudburst to the guy at the wheel, askin' him if this was a sample of the delicious climate which all the Californians raves about when they come East for a slummin' trip. The chauffeur shakes six gallons of rain out of his hat and looks up at the sky whilst the drops bounce off his face. "Hump!" he remarks. "Darned if we ain't havin' a high fog!"

Bloodshed was avoided by throwin' Knockout into the back of the cab and slammin' the door.

But it was all different the followin' morn, and as we rolled out to Hollywood in the beautiful warm sunshine and the comely tourin' car the movie company sent to the hotel after us, passin' through rows of shelterin' palms, bloomin' flowers, dumfounded tourists which has never been nowheres, but which repeats over and over: "I never seen nothin' like this in Europe!" and dazzlin' movie queens which looks even better off the screen—well, even the hard-boiled Knockout Burns leans back in the cushions and gasps: "Say, this slab's a dude of a burg, hey?"

Fin'ly we get to the studio, and they is a good-sized

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 mob on hand to lamp the world's champion. As outside the ring, Kid Roberts looked like anything in the world but a prize fighter, half the witnesses pegged Knockout Burns for the title holder, and this big bozo stood up in the car and took eight bows before I yanked him down in the seat. We hold a short reception, and then over comes a little guy entitled Cuthbert Van Dyke, whose name I hear is really Luther O'Brien and who's knowed around the lot as "Joe." He walks right up to Knockout Burns and grabs his hand. "Well, well, well," he says. "This is certainly a treat. So this is the famous Kid Roberts, eh? Well, well, well! How d'ye like California?"

"Fried!" says Knockout with a goofy grin. "What time does Charlie Chaplin come to work?"

At this critical point, whilst the hysterics is at their height and Van Dyke's face is redder than fifty cents' worth of tomatoes, Kid Roberts steps into the breeches and introduces us all around. Van Dyke turns out to be the guy which is goin' to direct the Kid's movie, and he seems dumfounded at the way the boy handles the President's english, and likewise because the champ looks and acts like he was more used to a dress suit than fightin' trunks. Amongst the others which shares our charmin' director's surprise is Nada Nice, which is carded to be the Kid's leadin' lady in the forthcomin' thriller. The fair Nada had evidently expected to be at the loss how to put a world's champion prize fighter at his ease, but before they talked ten minutes Kid Roberts—late of Yale and Fifth Avenue—was tryin' to make Nada feel comfortable.

They is not the slightest doubt that Nada Nice was

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 all her name suggested. Yes, boys and girls, Nada was a pulse quickener of the first water, and it was comical to watch Knockout Burns, lockjawed for once, gazin' at her with his mouth as open as a Memphis crap game and his eyes a foot from his head. The beauteous damsel favored the battle-scarred: Knockout with a scornful quirk of a too red lip, and trained her heavy guns on Kid Roberts, which never give her a tumble, thereby allowin' Nada to enjoy a sensation she prob'ly hadn't had since she was fourteen years old. You see, the Kid was signed up for all of it with Dolores, which could of spotted Venus five cans of complexion cream and then made the noted model look like a overworked dishwasher! If you owned the Pacific Ocean, would you get a thrill out of gazin' upon a glass of water? Well, that was the Kid's position—get me?

How the so ever, in spite of the fact that Kid Roberts showed no indication of gettin' chills and fever from watchin' Nada, I felt they was a bust comin' before we got through elevatin' the deaf and dumb drama. I knew Nada wouldn't be happy till the handsome world's champion got lured into gettin' personal so's she could bawl him out, and thus get revenge for him askin' her what she thought of Wagner's Rheingold and tzappin' her into answerin' that she had favored Budweiser before Keeley went crazy and cured the entire country. Then again, Knockout Burns was overboard over her and would have to be disposed of, and I had caught Van Dyke frownin' heartily at Nada every time she tried out a grin on the Kid. On the top of all this, they was a

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 chance of Dolores Brewster herself comin' to California to spend the winter, and she was just broad-minded enough to go up in the air sixty-four miles the first time she seen the Kid and Nada clinched, movie or no movie! So you can see that things was set for a jam, and said jam was had, but it was a twist which had never entered my dome which caused it.

Well, after we have decided to adjourn the mutual admiration society, we trip over to Van Dyke's office for the purposes of havin' the scenario of the Kid's movie read at us. The picture is called "The Knockout," and they is apparently everything in it but the battle of Bunker Hill and the landin' of the Pilgrim family. Action? You tell 'em, camera, I'm overexposed! Van Dyke and his merry men, includin' the composer of the thing, seemed to think it a wow, but Kid Roberts begin waggin' his head after the first few seconds, and his lip begins to curl.

"What's the idea?" butts in the director on the author's readin', speakin' to the Kid. "Don't it hit you?"

"A bit absurd, don't you think?" says the Kid politely. "That—eh—throwing those fellows over the cliff and—"

"Never mind, Kid," pipes up Knockout Burns, with a wink at Nada, "what do you care? It's all fun!"

"All fun!" howls Van Dyke, jumpin' up and glarin' at him. "D'ye know that it's gonna set us back about sixty thousand berries to shoot this? All fun, eh? You try to clown this, you dumb-bell, and—"

"Burns, shut up!" orders Kid Roberts, smilin'. "Pay no attention to him," he goes on, turnin' to the enraged

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 Van Dyke: "Go on and read the rest of this idiotic—eh—this story. I'm anxious to hear the climax."

"Sure!" says Knockout Burns, waggin' a finger at Van Dyke. "Quit holdin' out on us. I don't think they's enough murders in it myself. In the, now, Births of the Nation, they was—"

I clamped both hands over his mouth and, chokin' back a howl, Van Dyke smoothes his hair, turns to the Kid and continues.

"Now," he says, "here's the big wow! You're fightin' the English champeen, and, as you remember from what has gone before, your life, honor, and the woman you love is at stake—see? One of your seconds has been bribed by the Secret Twelve to slip dope in your water bottle—see? All right, now you come up for the last round, suddenly dazed and groggy—see? The crowd is goin' cuckoo—you get floored twice—stagger around helplessly, about to be knocked cold—see? Then Miss Nice appears in your corner—there's a shot showin' her fightin' her way through the mob down the aisle—see? As the Englishman is about to knock you stiff, you see her—your face brightens up—Wam!—you knock the Englishman through the ropes—the Secret Twelve is beaten—the girl's father is saved from the chair—you win her and the champeenship of the world!"

Van Dyke stops, breathless, and Knockout Burns stirs in his chair.

"And then what?" he says.

Four guys grabbed our charmin' director, but not before he had throwed the telephone book at Knockout's head. "Take 'at big stiff outa here, or I'll cook

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 him!" shrieks Van Dyke, reachin' for his back pocket—and Knockout Burns breezed.

Bright and early the next mornin'—that is, the mornin' was bright and we was early—we start shootin' "Kid Roberts, Undisputed Champion Heavyweight Boxer of the World, supported by a Super-Cast in the Super-Production, THE KNOCKOUT. The Greatest Moving Picture Since Mona Lisa Disappeared!"

Both me and the fascinatin' Knockout Burns was drafted for this frolic, prob'ly to keep us quiet. I took off the exactin' role of a spectator in the big fight scene. They hired a regular actor to play the Kid's manager, on account of 'em havin' several important scenes together. Can you imagine that, with me right there in person? Knockout Burns was one of the supers of the Super-Production. That day we also had the pleasure of meetin' the assistant villain, to the viz., the guy which the Kid was scheduled to knock for a row of ash cans in the film brawl. Accordin' to the recipe for the movie, this bimbo was merely a slight ingredient, but before we got through he promoted himself to actin' chief scoundrel and ruffian plenipotentiary.

Van Dyke comes over to us, plastered with grins.

"Well, we're certain lucky!" he says. "I got Young Hamilton to play that fight scene with you, Kid. I wanted a man who looks like a fighter—in fact, who is a fighter—and yet has sortie intelligence—no offense, Kid, no offense—and I got him!"

"If you wanted a guy which looks like a fighter and is a fighter, what's the matter with me, hey?" says Knockout Burns.

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 Van Dyke snorts.

"He's also got to look like a human bein'!" he answers. Then he turns to us: "Of course you know Young Hamilton?"

"I'm afraid not," says the Kid.

"I think I smacked a guy down in a round at Butte last year by that name," remarks Knockout.

"You never smacked this baby down!" says Van Dyke. "Young Hamilton was amateur heavyweight champ of the Coast for two years—up to last year, in fact—when somebody picked him for a type in a picture and since then he's done pretty well for himself on the different lots. He's just finished a picture with Stella Sweetish and I'm gonna sew him to a contract when he gets through with yours. But the point is Hamilton was never stopped as a amateur, he's always in condition and he can give you a pretty stiff argument for enough footage to make it look good. And this here prize fight has got to look like a fight, get me? Boxin' fans all over the country are gonna flock to see this picture and you and me knows that the rest of the filum will run for the end book—what they're comin' to see is the heavyweight champ action with gloves on in a ring! Unless this fight knocks 'em off their seats right into the aisles, they're gonna laugh me to death, and it won't do you no good either, Kid. Well, I'm gonna drive them cuckoo with this box fight you can bet your left lung on that part of it! Fight scenes is my dish—I made my reputation on 'em and I'm gonna goal 'em with this one. Two weeks after I release this baby, they'll have

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 forgot whether Griffith makes movies or biscuits! Now—wait a minute, here's Hamilton."

He calls across the lot and Monsieur Hamilton steps away from some girls he was chattin' with and strolls over.

I liked this bird at the go in and I know the Kid did. Perhaps if it hadn't been for ravishin' Nada Nice we might of all become pals. It only goes to show how a good-looker can ball everything up, as Adam was heard to mutter on the ways out of the Garden of Eden.

Except for the telltale dent in his beak, Hamilton looked no more like a pug than the Kid did—in fact, they was much the same type. He was every bit as big as Roberts, about the same age, and with all his disarmin', white-toothed, kid grin he had a rugged business-like appearance. Hamilton looked genuinely tickled to shake hands with the world's champion and said so, and him and the Kid was gettin' along first-class, with little Van Dyke rubbin' his hands together and tellin' 'em to get used to each other, when along come Nada. Without no preliminaries she hooks her arm in Hamilton's, flashes him a dazzlin' smiile, and, completely ignorin' the rest of us, tells him to come on and show her the breathin' exercises he was tellin' her about. Hamilton gets a bit red, stammers a apology, hesitates—and she drags him off, flickin' a short, cold glance at the Kid. Van Dyke looks after 'em, frownin'.

"Eh—don't mind Nada, Kid, she's always that way," he says. "You know these stars—gotta humor 'em.

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 Eh—she's just like a baby—don't mean a thing wrong by that—eh—maybe a bit peeved over—well, I gotta run along. Be in callin' distance!"

And he beats it.

Right away I get a chill. I was wishin' Miss Dolores Brewster was in Loose Angeles, believe me!

Knockout Burns clears his throat.

"This Hamilton guy," he snarls. "Where does he rate that stuff? Amateur champ, hey? Well, there's one bozo I can take and I'm tellin' North America that me and that bird will go to the post before we knock off work here! Where does he fit to grab off that Jane, hey?"

Poor Knockout Burns. The only guy which didn't figure at all!

Still lookin' after Hamilton and Nada, the Kid has a odd, half smile on his face.

"It must be that this Nada person thinks you don't like her, Kid, hey?" I remarks uneasily.

"No," says the Kid, suddenly showin' astonishin' shrewdness. "It's because she thinks I do!" Then he laughs and speaks kinda to himself: "This will amuse Dolores—Lord, I'll have a book to write her to-night!"

I guess he was safe, hey?

Well, boys and girls, I got to admit that, as a movie star, Kid Roberts was a wonderful box fighter! The boy screened as well as Mary Pickford's husband, but he was no actor and that was that. This make-believe stuff hit him as bein' the height of ridiculous, and he'd come in for his rub-down after a tough day before

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 the camera, cussin' me for signin' him up as a matinée idol and remarkin' that never before in his life had he felt like such a darn fool. They had a terrible time gettin' him to use make-up, and when Nada Nice first throwed her soft arms around his manly neck, as per the scenario, you could see the glow from the Kid's face in Brazil. This brung a sneer from Nada and a involuntary giggle from Hamilton—his first mistake.

But it was in the fight-scene rehearsals that Kid Roberts showed he was not born for the movies. The champ had never stalled in his life and he couldn't stall now—that is, he couldn't pull the wallops he sent at Hamilton or flop to the mat as if he'd been floored with a punch and make either of 'em look like the real thing. He was no faker, and of course he was careful not to hurt Hamilton, with the result that many's the foot of film was throwed away on bouts which wouldn't of give a fight fan any more thrill than you give a ex-manicurist when you ask her can you hold her hand. Van Dyke tore his hair and raved all over the lot, but they was nothin' stirrin'. The Kid wouldn't take advantage of Hamilton and tear into him for real and he wasn't enough of a actor to fake the thing well, so, as the French remarks, what would you?

Right here I would like to say that this Monsieur Hamilton was far from a set-up for any man. Big, rugged, fast, in perfect condition, and a two-handed puncher, he looked capable of extendin' the Kid in any kind of a fight. As far as that part of it goes, they's plenty of husky, clever guys, which never

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 fought for pennies in their lives but could make things interestin' if they had to for any of our champs from fly-weight to heavy—as many's the professional leather pusher has found out!

One mornin' Kid Roberts and Young Hamilton is rehearsin' this fight scene with Van Dyke dancin' around 'em bellerin' for action and screamin' that they're mixin' it like a pair of room-mates, when suddenly the little director stops in disgust and calls it off for the day. I thought the boys was goin' unusually good, but Van Dyke wanted a murder. As the Kid passes me on the ways to the shower, I notice a small lump on his right cheek bone and, in some surprise, I remarked on it.

"This fellow is tough!" grins the Kid, noddin' over his shoulder at Hamilton. Van Dyke grabs his arm.

"Look here!" he says, lowerin' his voice. "There's no use of us wastin' time and money rehearsin' this thing any longer. I'm gonna shoot the fight scene in a couple of days, and when I give you the office I want you to knock Hamilton stiff—get me? No fakin' this time, understand; let him have it! It ain't gonna kill him and he's gettin' well paid for it. I'll get a coupla good shots out of the thing, anyways!"

The Kid shakes the hand off his arm and regards him coldly.

"You're a poor judge of type, Van Dyke," he says. "Of course, I will do nothing of the sort!"

Van Dyke give a short, nasty little laugh as the Kid passes on.

"Nevertheless," he says, presentin' me with a funny look. "Nevertheless, he's gonna knock Hamilton out!"

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 At this interestin' point Knockout Burns come slouchin' up with aold sweater throwed over his shoulders, ready for his daily workout with the Kid. He sees Hamilton, also in ring togs, talkin' to Nada Nice, which same is lookin' up into the big fellow's face like it was the Garden of the Gods and she was gettin' her first flash at it. Knockout growls and his thick upper lip draws away from the snaggled teeth underneath.

"Look at the big goof," he sneers, talkin' to me, but purposely raisin' his voice. "Always posin' in front of some skirt! I wisht they'd let me step a couple of frames with that bozo—you can tell Russia I wouldn't hold him up like the Kid does. Maybe I ain't no world's champion or the like, but I'm champion of that guy, anyways!"

A couple of birds looked around curiously and a camera man laughed. I seen Nada's eyes sparkle as Hamilton stared at Knockout Burns and then back at her. He forced a smile and just for a instant a look flashed in Nada's eyes—the look that is a woman's way of callin' you whatever particular name makes you want to kill! Hamilton walks over to Knockout Burns and deliberately looks him up and down.

"Ah—like to—ah—warm up a bit, while you're waitin' for your—ah—master?" he says, coolly enough.

Knockout Burns tore the sweater off his shoulders with one snatch, licked his lips, and says "Aaaaah!" with the relish of a rummy downin' a suddenly discovered shot of bonded hooch.

Right then I went off Nada Nice for life! For from that minute this Young Hamilton, which both me

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 and the Kid was beginnin' to like, was changed from a good guy to a nasty, grand-stand playin', insultin' fathead which wasn't cured till—but wait!

Into the ring where a little while before Kid Roberts and Hamilton had been rehearsin' their phony fight climbs Nada's boy friend and Knockout Burns. Carpenters, camera men, supers, electricians, and what not dropped what ever they was doin', of course, and crowded around 'em, and they was plenty more come a runnin' from all parts of the lot. Nada, how the so ever, took the air.

Well, I figured here was a good opportunity to see what Hamilton—really had and just how much of a chance the Kid was takin' with him. Knockout Burns was a tough old battle-scarred veteran of hundreds of gory mêlées. He packed a wicked right and had stopped a lot of good men before Kid Roberts cut him short with a one-round knockout on the champ's way to the top. I decided I'd stop the bout the first time Hamilton looked in trouble, as I didn't want the young man punished by anybody connected with us. With that in mind, I hopped over the ropes and asked 'em both if they was any objection to me refereein'. Knockout laughed, and Hamilton, after a glance at me which was very brief but likewise very penetratin', shrugs his shoulders and says it was O. K. with him.

Van Dyke, chargin' into the ring with a gang of huskies, stopped the fight in the second round whilst I was tollin' off the fatal seconds over a dazed and battered heavyweight, which, restin' on one knee,

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 was waitin' to hear "nine" before resumin' a hopeless argument. The heavy's name was Knockout Burns.

Boys and girls, you ain't no more surprised than I was. Any doubts I had with the regard to Young Hamilton's ability as a box fighter vanished in the first round of that short brawl. The ex-amateur champ made a monkey out of Burns—made this tough bird look absolutely silly. He glided around the enraged Knockout, pepperin' him with stingin' rights and lefts, bringin' him up gaspin' with vicious smashes to the heart and wind, feintin' him into futile knots, pickin' off his well-meant returns whilst they was still in the air, and then, goin' out to finish his man in the second round, he floored him twice before Van Dyke stopped it. Half a dozen guys was required to hold Burns, which raved, cussed, and begged to have the bout go on. He bellered that he wasn't hurt, that he was just gettin' warmed up, and that he always looked bad in the first couple of rounds on account of not bein' a boxer, but a slugger—all of which was true. But Van Dyke waved him away, threatenin' to bar him from the lot if he didn't get off the scene. However, when I caught the little director's eye, he looked to me to be tickled silly.

Kid Roberts was very sore when he heard about this muss and bawled out Knockout Burns to a farethee-well, promisin' to can him if he started anything with anybody else whilst we was there. Then the Kid apologized to Hamilton for Knockout's runnin' amuck, and Hamilton, no longer the laughin', good-natured kid, smiled faintly, murmured somethin' about bein'

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 able to take care of himself, and walked away. Kid Roberts raised his eyebrows, but says nothin'.

As the time drawed near for the filmin' of the large fight scene, the indications was that a excitin' time would be had by all. The Kid's nerves had been about shot to pieces by the constant abuse of little Van Dyke regardin' his actin' and the deliberate, silent contempt with which Nada Nice treated him when they wasn't workin' together. Young Hamilton had got so upstage you couldn't talk to him at all, and it was plain and also amusin' to everybody on the lot that he had went cuckoo over Nada, which seemed to take that fact for granted—bein' the type of Jane which cannot understand why every guy she meets don't go out and commit suicide at the thoughts of havin' to live without her.

Knockout Burns kept after Hamilton every time they got within speakin' distance on the lot and the Kid wasn't around. He rode that boy from mornin' till night, darin' him to slip out somewheres and go to the post with him again, callin' him a quitter and a big false alarm which he would murder if he ever got him in a ring for a finish fight. Lookin' back, I often wonder how Hamilton stood it, but stand it he did, contentin' himself with merely smilin' sarcastically at the blah-blahin' Knockout and never a word of a comeback. Frequently the Knockout's remarks got so raw that I shut him up myself, but beyond a tightenin' of jaw and a glintin' of eye once or twice, Hamilton never give him a tumble.

The day they're goin' to shoot the fight between the Kid and Hamilton, which winds up the picture, I'm

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 stumblin' around through the scenes on one of the stages wishin' it was all over, when I hear the voices of Hamilton and Nada Nice. I am not no keyhole listener, but they was talkin' about Kid Roberts, and without no apologies I will tell you that I stopped for a earful.

"—It would be too crooked!" Hamilton's sayin'. "I don't want to even think about it, Nada. The way to do that would be to challenge Roberts openly and meet him in a fair fight, where he'd know I was doing my best to win. This way it's— Oh, it's all wrong! He'll be unprepared, unsuspecting—no, I don't want to do anything like that. If it wasn't for the fact that I've got to play my part in this thing to-day, pretend he has knocked me out, I'd—well, Nada, I'd whip him—a thing that I'm as sure I can do as I am that my name is Hamilton!"

"And be heavyweight champion of the world—with all the fame and fortune that goes with it!" breathes this vamp, and I can imagine the eye work she's doin' on friend Hamilton. "Well, do as you like," she goes on, in a voice that was like a kiss. "I don't want you to think I would suggest anything—er—wrong. But if I were a man and had this opportunity—"

Her voice trails off suddenly and I hear a new one—Van Dyke's.

"Hello, folks!" he greets 'em. "Nada—over on that drawin' room set for yours. I want a close-up of you and Kid Roberts before he starts for the ring. Hurry up, I'll be right over—got somethin' to tell Hamilton."

I hear Nada trippin' away and then Van Dyke again.

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 "Hamilton," he says, almost in a whisper, "look out for yourself in this fight with Kid Roberts. I got this straight from headquarters and it's no josh. This big stiff is sore at the way you trimmed his sparrin' partzer, and, well—you know how Nada's acted—and he's gonna try and deliberately cut you to pieces to give the gang a laugh! Watch your step and—"

Hamilton cuts in.

"All right—thanks!" he says. "I'll watch out and—you watch me! This is better than I hoped for and I'm going to give this fellow the surprise of his life!"

On top of Hamilton's retreatin' footsteps come Van Dyke's short laugh, and then I stepped from behind the scenery, right into him. He changed colors like a lizard and greatly reminded me of one, for that matter.

"What's the big idea?" I snarls. "Come on, make it snappy and don't stall—I heard the whole layout! Are you tryin' to frame Kid Roberts, you little rat? You know the Kid's got no idea of knockin' Hamilton's head off. Why, he'd no more hurt that guy than he'd—"

"That's what's the matter!" butts in Van Dyke excitedly. "That's exactly the trouble! But if Hamilton comes at him doin' his best, why, the Kid will have to knock his head off, won't he?"

"He might have to stop him—yes," I admits. "But—"

"But nothin'!" says Van Dyke. "You got some brains, ain't you? You know what depends on this fight scene bein' a riot—why, it's the kick to the whole picture! If it flops, good-bye money, my reputation, yes, and a good part of your champ's rep, too. Fight

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 fans out in the sticks which never seen Roberts start, and never will, are gonna see him in this movie, and if he looks bad, you know what they'll say. Another thing, what happens to your percentage of the picture's earnin's if the thing's a bust? And a bust it will be if the Kid and Young Hamilton don't put up a rip-roarin', two-fisted, he-man battle! You seen them rehearse time after time and you also seen how terrible they both was in the scene—each scared to death he'd muss the other one's hair. D'ye think I'd release a bust like that with my name on it? Not on your life! I'm gonna shoot a fight to-day that will put a permanent marcel in their hair! What d'ye suppose Nada's been cuttin' Roberts and eggin' Hamilton on for? What d'ye suppose I told him the Kid was out to take him for, heh? What d'ye—"

"Wait a minute!" I says. "D'ye mean to tell me that Nada Nice has upstaged the Kid and lured this poor boob Hamilton on at your orders?"

"Nada knows the situation," he stallsstalls. [sic] "Why shouldn't she do what she can to help me? I made that girl! I'm her director, ain't I?"

"Well," I says, after a bit, "you certainly win the tissue-paper nail file! In order to make your movie a success, you take a chance on Kid Roberts gettin' his head—" and then I stopped.

"The Kid ain't takin' no chance at all!" he sneers, readin' my thoughts. "Why, he should dispose of this guy with ease—he's champion of the world ain't he?"

"Yes, but—" I begins, but get no chance.

"And another thing you wanna remember, fellah,"

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 goes on Van Dyke, "is that this ain't only my movie, it's yours and his also! Of course, if you think your champ will get mussed up and you wanna crab this thing, go to it. If you tell Kid Roberts, it's all off, because the big—because he'll refuse to knock Hamilton dead. This Roberts is a hot sketch for a fighter, anyways!"

"But look here, Stupid," I says. "If I don't wise the Kid up, how d'ye expect him to put up a sure enough battle?"

"Hamilton will take care of that part of it," grins Van Dyke. "When this baby steps into that ring, Kid Roberts will have to fight!"

What was I gonna do? If I crabbed the thing, the story that Kid Roberts had refused to box Young Hamilton, the ex-amateur champ, etc., would travel from California to Florida overnight. I shut up and walked back with Van to the others, through with the movies—jack or no jack!

We breezed over to where the Kid, Nada, Hamilton, and the rest of the gang is waitin' and after some close-ups of Nada in the Kid's arms have been shot, Van Dyke gives Roberts and Hamilton their final directions for the battle. With a wink at Hamilton which the Kid don't see, Van Dyke remarks that he hopes the champion won't lose his temper and knock Hamilton for a goal. Kid Roberts innocently grins and turns to the scowlin' ex-amateur champ.

"Don't mind him, old man," he says, "I'll be as careful as—"

Hamilton cuts him off with a snarl.

"Oh, never mind that stuff," he says sneerin'ly.

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 "You do your best, Roberts—for I certainly shall!"

This was too much for Knockout Burns.

"Why, you big goof!" he yells, "Kid Roberts'll bust you in half! You're gonna try, eh? Well, if you want action I got a thousand bucks which says I can knock you stiff inside ten rounds. C'mon, less go, you four-flusher!"

"Shut up, Burns!" says the Kid, his quiet gaze never leavin' Hamilton's flushed face. "I'm very sorry you feel that way, Hamilton. Perhaps we had better postpone this scene until you're in better humor. It's rather dangerous for two big men to—"

Nada shot a meanin' glance at Hamilton, and her nasty laugh shut the Kid off right in the middle as Van Dyke butts in with:

"We don't postpone nothin'! I got a fight club leased for this scene and a mob of extry people gettin' five bucks the each—seven for the ones with dress suits—waitin'. C'mon, pile into them autos outside and forget it!"

Suddenly Hamilton pulls a mechanical smile, mumbles a apology, and offers the Kid his hand. They shake, but the ex-amateur champ was lookin' away when he done it—lookin' over the Kid's shoulder at Nada Nice.

A hour or so later Kid Roberts and Young Hamilton is climbin' through the ropes in a regulation ring at the old West Coast A. C. whilst a battery of movie cameras is grindin' out their every move and every move of a crowd which packed the joint to the roof. On a high stool beside the ring, and out of range of

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 the cameras, Van Dyke is perched, directin' through a megaphone. Near by sits Nada Nice, chattin' with friends, ready to appear in the Kid's corner for the climax. She looked like she hadn't a care in the world—and prob'ly hadn't. All around the edge of the ring is the newspaper guys, tickled silly to come and get a real line on the champion's present condition; back of them the supers in dress suits and evenin' gowns, and behind them a bunch of society guys and their girl friends, invited with engraved cards by Van Dyke, and there out of curiosity to see a movie made. The supers is tryin' to act like society leaders, and the society leaders is tryin' to act like supers. Kid Roberts is grinnin' and chattin' with the newspaper guys, answerin' a fire of questions about his next fight and the like, but across the ring Hamilton is drawn and nervous, his eyes on the floor.

"Lights!" bellers Van Dyke, and a distinct hush fell over the mob. "Ready, camera—all right, Roberts, Hamilton—shoot!"

Clang!—the bell just like the real thing, and they're off.

Both men come to the center of the ring, touched gloves lightly, and begin sparrin', as they'd rehearsed over and over. Hamilton suddenly chopped his right to the head and then hooked the same glove to the jaw as the Kid started to back away. The champ boxed cautiously for a few seconds, landin' lightly with both hands, and Hamilton drove him against the ropes with a torrid left to the body. Lookin' surprised, Roberts clinched, and the wise newspaper guys begin to sit up

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 straight in their seats. I can't remember when my throat was ever so dry before! They slid along the ropes, Hamilton fightin' with one arm free, diggin' his glove into the kidneys and short ribs. The referee, a assistant director, broke them on orders from Van Dyke, and the Kid put a slow left to the head, apologizin' when the heel of the glove scraped skin from Hamilton's ear. The ex-amateur champ's reply was a volley of lefts and rights that gave the Kid all he could do for a minute, and then Van Dyke shouts through the megaphone:

"Now, Roberts, you drop your hands and stagger away—you been doped, and here's where you get knocked down—that's good—that's fine! Hamilton, get ready to swing your right—don't watch the camera—you think you're on the verge of knockin' the champion out—that's right, try and look it! Now, Hamilton—cop him—on the chest will do; it'll look like a punch from here—ready now—all right drop your hands, Roberts, drop your—"

Kid Roberts obediently lowers his guard, and, quick as a flash, Hamilton pastes him—not on the chest, but square on the point of the jaw, and the Kid goes down like a log!

"Cut!" hollers Van Dyke. "That's great—wonderful! I'll give these birds a movie!"

Mutterin' apologies, Hamilton bends down and helps the Kid to his feet, whilst twelve assistants of Van Dyke grabs me and shoves me back out of the ring, which I had reached in one frenzied jump, hollerin' that nobody's allowed on the set whilst Van Dyke's shootin'. The crowd gives Hamilton a big hand as he walks to

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 his stool, and Nada waves her hand to him. Van Dyke is grinnin' happily. Whilst Knockout Burns and the other handlers is workin' over Kid Roberts, I lashed out with both hands, clearin' a space and managed to crawl through the ropes to the Kid's side.

"Kid—this is a frame-up!" I panted in his ear. "I ain't got time to tell you all of it now, but knock this guy dead and knock him quick! He's tryin' to put you away, and—"

"Nonsense!" smiles the Kid. "The boy lost his head, that's all. I'm not hurt; the punch was too high, and I was falling when I got it, you know. Hamilton's probably sorrier than I am that he landed. The thing was an unavoidable accident. Forget it!"

Van Dyke comes over and shoves past me. "Everything's goin' fine!" he tells the Kid, slappin' his shoulder. "Now this is the last round. Remember, you get floored twice, then Nada appears at the foot of the ropes—you see her—get up, rush Hamilton, and knock the big bu—that is, he'll fall through the ropes like he was cracked—see?"

The Kid nods and Van Dyke calls Hamilton over. They's a mattress on the floor outside the ropes so's he won't get hurt when he goes through 'em, and Van Dyke makes him and the Kid rehearse the thing once more without the cameras. I thought they did it pretty well, and the society bunch clapped their hands off. Then Van Dyke calls for lights and cameras, the bell rings, and they begin the thrillin' climax.

Thrillin '  was right!

The minute they met in the middle of the ring Hamilton throws all pretenses to the breeze and give

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 himself up to the job of knockin' Kid Roberts for a row of silos. Van Dyke called out the rehearsed blows to him, but the ex-amateur champ, with murder in his eyes, paid no attention, and before the round was a minute old he had the Kid doin' his best, and everybody in the place knowed they was seein' a finish fight and not no movie! The Kid missed a left jab, and Hamilton opened a old cut over his eye with a vicious right, puttin' a straight left to the same place before the amazed Roberts could block. I had to admire this Hamilton's speed, even though I would of liked to cooked him then and there! Roberts brought him up standin' with a right to the heart, but a instant later Hamilton made the champ open his mouth and gasp with two hard smashes to the wind. Van Dyke now yelled hysterically for the Kid to take his first fall, and, backin' away from the rushin' Hamilton, Roberts slid clumsily to the floor. At once the house rocked with the boos of the excited mob, society bunch and all. The only way I can explain the thing that happened next is that Hamilton went cuckoo at the chance to knock out the world's champion—for he swung a wicked right to the Kid's head as he was gettin' up off the floor, sprawlin' the champ flat on his back. The assistant director, which was "referee," was nuts himself with the thrill of the thing and forgot to count, but the newspaper guys willin'ly obliged. The Kid took "nine," and when he come up they was everything but mercy in his hard, glitterin' gray eyes.

I hadn't watched Hamilton work for nothin', and when the Kid's anxious gaze searched and found mine in the mob I screamed over the din: "Make him lead

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 to you, Kid!" and Roberts immediately feinted Hamilton into swingin' his right. As the punch started, the champ slid in under it and hooked both hands to the jaw, followin' that with a left to the body that all but doubled Hamilton in two. The ex-amateur star now begin back-pedalin' all over the ring with the Kid on top of him, jabbin' his head back and forth with his beautiful straight left and playin' for a openin' for his deadly right.

As per the scenario, Nada appears at the edge of the ring, wavin' her arms and shoutin' to attract the Kid's attention, but the Kid was terrible busy just then! Van Dyke swings his megaphone around and bawls somethin' in her ear. Nada smiles and at once begins yellin'—yellin' for Hamilton to knock the Kid out! Roberts stops dead, turns slowly and looks at her with a most peculiar expression on his face. The watchin' Hamilton plunges in with a right uppercut that buckled the Kid's knees under him and sent the mob insane. Likewise me! They mixed it furiously near Hamilton's corner and Van Dyke bellers for the ex-amateur champ to fall through the ropes. Hamilton sneers at him and hooked his left hard to the Kid's mouth, bringin' the blood. The place was now in a wild uproar and neither of 'em paid any attention to the bell, but stood toe to toe, sluggin' with both hands. Hamilton was the first to break ground and the Kid raised a lump on his jaw with a overhand right swing that sent him spinnin' to the ropes. He rebounded into a right that tore his ear and dove into a clinch, but the Kid jerked himself free and split the ex-amateur champ's nose with a left chop. Both then missed

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 rights to the head and Roberts again put his left to the sore nose. Hamilton looked very tired and tried to make the Kid box with him, but Roberts was impatient to end matters and peppered his man with short, joltin' lefts and rights to the wind, wearin' him down so's to get a fair crack at the jaw. The chance come fin'ly when a smash over the heart doubled Hamilton up. The Kid coolly jabbed a openin' with his left, measured the punch-drunk ex-amateur champ and with a right uppercut to the button sent him crashin' through the ropes as advertised—and it wasn't on the side of the ring where the mattress was, either!

The mob is millin' out through the doors, havin' been furnished with somethin' to talk about for months, and we're all gathered about Hamilton which is sittin' on his stool, just comin' to life. Knockout Burns pushes through the jam to his side.

"Well, you big double-crossin' tramp!" he snarls at the beaten Hamilton. "Are you satisfied now, eh? Woof—what a proper pastin' you drawed for yourself! It takes a lickin' like that to show you false alarms where you git off. I bet you won't look at a boxin' glove again till the day you die. It's a good thing I wasn't in there with you, I'd of cut you to ribbons, just to be nasty!"

Hamilton looks up at Burns, starin' him steadily in the eye like he's tryin' to remember where he seen him before. Then his teeth comes together with a click, he gets up slowly and pushes away the guys which wants to help him.

"Put up your hands!" he says huskily.

"Why, you—" begins the astonished Burns—and

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 never finished, for Hamilton shot straight out with his bandaged right hand and Knockout Burns sagged a second and then toppled in a heap at my feet!

So that was all settled.

"Roberts," says Hamilton, unsteadily, facin' the cold-eyed Kid, "I—I—was a fool! However, I guess I've paid for it. I—I—lost my head— No, damn it, I'll be square with you! I went in there determined to knock you out and I deserve all I got, but—I have never done anything like this in my life before—never tried to double-cross anyone and—and I feel rotten about it! Will you accept my sincere apology—please?"

The Kid looks him over and grins. "Why of course!" he says, shakin' his hand warmly. "It's forgotten, old boy. I don't blame you in a way—it was a big chance and then there was—" He looks around meanin'ly to where Nada Nice and Van Dyke is in earnest conversation. Van Dyke waves his hand and calls over: "A wonderful picture—wonderful! This thing will make you, Hamilton!" and goes right on talkin' to Nada again.

"By the way," says Hamilton, "I—ah—pardon my curiosity, but what is your real real name? I mean, I know it isn't Kid Roberts; all fighters adopt a ring—"

"I'm Kane Halliday, out of the ring," says the Kid.

"Cain?" hollers Hamilton, in a voice that made everybody look around at us. "By gad, no wonder you licked me!"

"Why?" asks the Kid.

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 "Don't you know?" roars Hamilton. "My name is Abel—Abel Hamilton!"

No, boys and girls, Hamilton didn't wed the charmin' Nada Nice. You see, she happened to be Van Dyke's wife.

And, as J. Caesar remarked as he waded the Rubicon, there's that!

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matter how nifty he is with his hands, a box fighter without absolute confidence in his ability to weather whatever unexpected hurricane of smashin' wallops he may run into durin' the course of a muss is a box fighter without no good reason for remainin' in a tough game. He may outpoint the clumsy, slow-thinkin' dumb-bells, but the hard-boiled baby which can take it and grimly wait till the openin' comes for one solid smash has the edge on this guy every time. The faint-hearted bird is no good when he's hurt; the real fighter is no good till he's hurt! In other words, the clever but weak-spirited boxer is usually a world beater among the tramps and a tramp among the world beaters.

But confidence, boys and girls, is a heady drink—too much is as dangerous to success as too little. You want to dilute it a bit, reduce its high proof with a little respect for the other guy's chances. Instead of thinkin' that every cuckoo and every situation you're called upon to face in this game called life is a set-up for you, allow leeway for the unreckoned break, the bolt from the blue, the chance that you might slip on the banana peel Fate or be flattened by the thunder

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 bolt Chance. Give plenty of play for the unnervin' unexpected and—it won't be!

Like the forbidden hooch, confidence has its deadly, high-powered bootleg imitation in Conceit. This often looks like the original, 100-proof bonded stuff—the difference is in the effect. Confidence steadies the ladder of Fame for you and makes the long climb easier. Conceit hides the holes between the rungs, with the results that you fall through.

And now, girls and boys, havin' got all that off my chest, here's a incident in the sensational career of Kid Roberts, which I would like to place before the jury as a good example of all the above.

Within a month after Kid Roberts has finished elevatin' the deaf-and-dumb drama by makin' that movie in which he knocked everybody cold includin' the exhibitors, we have signed for two bouts under the personal direction of Jimmy McManus, the Tex Rickard of his day. We are to get $150,000 for the first muss no matter what happens, and the same amount for the second—provided the Kid is still heavyweight champion. In other words, if we lose our first start, that's all there is, there isn't any more, as Ethel Barrymore was once heard to remark.

Jack Enright, a two-hundred-pounder from New Orleans, which had flashed to the front by the difficult process of winnin' all his brawls in a couple of rounds, and Marty McCabe, another tough bird, hailin' from Seattle, was the Kid's most persistent challengers. It has been almost a year since the Kid win the title, and in that time he hadn't defended it once. So either Enright or McCabe, both goin' great guns and fightin'

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 two or three times a month, looked worth a bet against the champ to all the wise crackers. All but me. I figured the Kid could climb into a ring with the two of 'em and knock 'em both dead!

Followin' several weeks of felonious assault on each other in the newspapers, Enright and McCabe is matched to mingle for twenty frames, the winner to get first crack at Kid Roberts and the world's heavyweight championship. This mêlée attracted no more attention than the invasion of Belgium, and by the time the brawny young men clambered into the ring to toss gloves at each other you couldn't of bought your way inside the clubhouse had your name been Jack Rockefeller.

Me and Kid Roberts was among the important guests, jammed right up against the lower ropes with the workin' sport writers, and after the announcer has lashed the customers into a murderous rage by introducin' everybody but Christopher Columbus, his eyes falls on Kid Roberts. In another minute the Kid is bein' helped through the ropes in his dazzlin dressdazzlin' dress [sic] suit, without which he wouldn't even go to the corner for a newspaper after six p. m.

The announcer got as far as "We have with us to-night—" when the roar killed him off and he quit. The mob had been sittin' for hours waitin' for Enright and McCabe to start in killin' each other. It was on edge and didn't want to meet nobody. Again, Kid Roberts hadn't defended his title for a year, and no champion can hold his popularity which don't fight early and often. The Kid's dress suit hit 'em all wrong, too. They wanted to see him in a business suit—fightin'

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 trunks and four-ounce gloves. So that Kid Roberts, standin' there white and hard-faced, heard the thing that every champ from Jem Mace to Jack Dempsey has heard sooner or later from the fickle mob—the long-drawn-out, vicious "Booooo!" drownin' out the cheers of the hysterical.

And, listen—don't think that stuff don't hurt!

This was all new and very painful to the Kid. He'd been used to a thunder of cheers wherever he showed his face. The raspberry was a fruit he had never tasted before, and the darn thing went to his head. Anyways, he stood lookin' out at the roarin' Atlantic of faces for a minute, curled his lip like he was sayin' "You poor fatheads!" and then, walkin' to Enright's corner, picked up his bandaged hand and shook it, politely wishin' him luck. He done the same thing to McCabe. Neither of 'em give him a tumble.

Back beside me, the Kid sneers: "Did you hear those fools jeering me?"

I hunched my shoulders and settled in the seat. "What do you care?" I says. "Now—"

"I'll win my next fight with a punch!" he goes on, smilin' nastily. "Just to show them the difference between a champion and"—he nods at Enright and McCabe—"and those thick-skulled bruisers there!"

"Well, les' forget it now and watch this one," I says, as the handlers begin scramblin' out of the ring. But I was bothered! The Kid had never done no braggin' before. Just the opposite—he'd concede a cripple a chance with him till the thing was over. This stuff was all new. I gazed at him sidewise, and he was lollin' back in his seat watchin' Enright

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 and McCabe, one of which he'd have to battle within the next six months, like they was a couple of amateurs in a gym. When he taps a yawn back into his mouth, I got a chill. Before we filed out of that clubhouse I was chilled to the bone!

With a sigh of pure joy, the crowd has leaned forward at the bell, breathin' hard and set for a long, tough battle, with the result a toss-up. A man-killin' slugger against a master boxer. Scheduled for twenty frames, seven or eight rounds of bloodcurdlin' millin' before one of 'em hit the mat seemed a cinch. As they came to the center, McCabe was short with a straight left, and Enright put a wicked right to the head, scrapin' the lace of his glove on the skin as he flicked it away.

"This guy's a dirty scrapper, Kid," I whispers.

"I'll make him clean!" scowls the Kid. "It won't even be a contest when I get him. Look, he's as open as a novice—I'll stop this fellow with the first one I try!"

Again I felt a nervous shiver, but I got no chance for a comeback because the gladiators was goin' to it with a right good will, as the sayin' is. Stung by the mob's yells, McCabe shook himself and begin dancin' around the clumsy Enright, stabbin' him in the face with a long, punishin' left. A few seconds of this and Enright's features is gory and purplin', and one eye has observed the early-closin' law. He missed a couple of vicious right swings, and then, followin' the shriekin' advice of his handlers, he begins to bull his way in to close quarters. This early and prob'ly unlooked-for success made McCabe a bit too

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 confident. He let Enright come in and, shiftin' his attack to the body, grinned jovially and pounded the wind with one arm free, the other protectin' himself. As the referee run over to break 'em, Enright's terrible right come up in a half circle, smashed through a openin' and clipped McCabe on the chin. McCabe's knees sagged, and a goofy look spread over his face. The mob's yell rocked the buildin', Quick as a flash, Enright's left flicked up around McCabe's neck, the glove droppin' with a thud just as the pantin' referee shoved 'em apart. McCabe fell with a crash, his face hittin' first.

He was still there at "ten." He was still there half a hour later when the disgusted, grumblin' crowd had milled out of the clubhouse. He was still there two hours after that, when another kind of a boxer—the undertaker—come to take him and his broken neck away from the perspirin' medicos and the dumfounded, white-faced club officials.

"Well," I says to the Kid as we climb into his car on the en route to the hotel, "d'ye still think Enright's a set-up?"

"Why not?" he says. "This tragedy to-night doesn't change my opinion a particle! I grant you Enright can hit—that short right uppercut that literally tore poor McCabe's head off would have felled an ox—but he isn't going to hit me with it, that's all. I've stopped a dozen men who could hit as hard as Enright, haven't I?"

"As hard—yes," I agrees, noddin' my head and gazin' out at the town generally. Then I looked back at him.

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 "Kid," I says, "since we first hooked up three years ago till we win the heavyweight title, we have took 'em all on regardless of color, weight, religion, or rep. We have ducked nobody. The only reason we ain't gone to the post with the Rock of Gibraltar is because they is no way to get boxin' gloves on it! I know you can take Enright, and I think you can stop any heavy which ever rubbed a foot in rosin and stop 'em the best day they ever seen. Nevertheless and but, we ain't goin' to fight Enright, and the newspapers can howl their heads off!"

Kid Roberts laughs good-naturedly. "Why—because he killed McCabe?" he asks, like he's humorin' a child.

"Exactly!" I says. "Because he killed McCabe, he likewise murdered his chance at the heavyweight title."

"Why, you fool!" says the Kid, becomin' excited, "do you think a thing like that would ever happen to Enright again—that he'd kill a man with a punch? It was an accident—an unfortunate accident, pure and simple. He—"

"The same kind of a accident as sunrise is!" I butts in. "Look here, just what do you think happened in that ring to-night? Just tell me how you got the knockout punch figured."

"There's nothing difficult about that," says the Kid. "You saw it. They were clinched when Enright landed a right uppercut, McCabe going down as the referee broke them. In falling, the poor devil's head hit a poorly padded bit of ring planking and, as the newspaper boys figure it, his head struck with sufficient

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 force to break his neck. Same thing that killed Luther McCarthy, you know. I'll never forget Enright's expression—he was thunderstruck!"

"Thunderstruck, your great-grand-aunt!" I snorts. "He was scared stiff—he thought somebody was wise. The rat!"

"Say, what are you gettin' at?" says the Kid, interested at last.

"This," I says. "Marty McCabe wasn't killed by hittin' his bean on nothin'. He was dead when he started to fall!"

The Kid's face is a movie. "I suppose," he says, with a sarcastical smile—"I suppose that Enright had a revolver concealed in his right glove and shot him—that it?"

"No," I says, "Enright had a rabbit punch concealed in his left glove and cracked his neck!"

That removed the sarcastical smile.

"Now," I continues, watchin' the amused sparkle in this big, handsome kid's gray eyes turn to a murderous steel glint, "if you'll gimme your undivided attention, I'll tell you what come to pass in that ring to-night. In the first place, let us take the rabbit punch. You've seen 'em kill rabbits by holdin' the intelligent animal up by the ears with one hand and hittin' him sharply on the back with the edge of the other, result—one dead rabbit. Now, it ain't a million years ago since this was a perfectly legal way of endin' a box fight, but the rabbit punch has been barred by law in most places and by public opinion in all. Next we have that clinch to-night which ends with the decease of Marty McCabe. Enright, a wild swinger, throws

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 that right uppercut into the air without a idea in the wide, wide world where it's goin' to land. Of course, he has hopes. As it happened, it caught McCabe on the chin and dazed him, but Enright, with his head buried under this guy's arm, didn't know where it went. All he knows is that he's licked if he don't get away from the terrific body punishment he was gettin', so he flicks up his left and drops the edge of it sharply on McCabe's neck. That's what finished McCabe—the rabbit punch, Kid, not the right uppercut! You and the newspaper guys is watchin' the fight. Me, I'm watchin' Enright, because you're goin' to fight him and I want to see everything he's got. And that's why we don't box that murderin' yellah dog."

We was at the hotel by this time, but the Kid don't make a crack till we get up to our rooms—just keeps shakin' his head.

"My God," he says to me fin'ly, "when I get out of this game I'll be the happiest man in the world!"

"I'll be the unhappiest," I says, "because I will then have to drive a truck!"

He throws over my shoulder a arm which in three years has turned him in close to a quarter of a million. "You'll quit the ring when I do," he grins, "and come in as an equal partner with father and me in whatever we undertake."

"I'd make a wonderful pillar of Wall Street," I says. "Nope, Kid, your intentions is great, but your judgment is terrible! When you step down I'll get me a battler or two and continue on."

"When I step down," he repeats. "That brings us back to Enright. We have a fifty-thousand-dollar for-

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 feit up to meet the winner of the Enright-McCabe fight, and Enright won—don't forget that."

"That's out, now," I says. "Enright will be on his way up the river in another month and—"

"Look here," he butts in. "I've thought this all over. How can you prove that he deliberately killed McCabe? Apparently nobody saw that rabbit punch but yourself."

That was it—how could I prove it?

"Listen to me," says the Kid after a minute. "There's nothing we can do about this but to keep quiet. We'll go down to-morrow and sign articles with Enright. They say I'm a moving-picture champion, eh? Well, you get me Enright, and I'll make him wish he'd never laid eyes on a boxing glove!"

"Hey, look here," I says, pretendin' to frown. "D'ye know you're gettin' terrible tough lately? I never heard you do no ballyhooin' about yourself before. What's the idea?"

Instantly he's embarrassed as a chorus girl without a telephone.

"Forgive me, old man," he says. "I can imagine how that must sound. I'll need two years in a finishing school after I quit this game before I'll dare attempt a drawing room!" Then he grins: "Say—it wouid be rich if Enright knocked me out, wouldn't it?"

You see what a kid he was.

Well, of course they didn't hold Enright for McCabe's death. Unavoidable accident and the like, and columns was wrote showin' they is eighty-six times

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 as many guys killed playin' football each year as they is in the box-fight game. What that proves I don't know. Anyways, in a week we sign to fight twenty frames with Enright for the world's heavyweight championship, and when we're comin' down in the elevator from the newspaper office, Red Samuels, Enright's pilot, says to me: "That was a tough break we got with McCabe—him dyin', eh?"

"Terrible tough," I says. "And if that burn of yours tries to rabbit-punch the champion, you'll get a tougher one. They'll all be watchin' him this time!"

He gets as white as cream, and I whispers somethin' to a newspaper guy. As I'm leavin' the elevator, the sport writer turns to Enright and says: "What's this I hear about you not enterin' a ring without a rabbit for a mascot?"

Sweet Mamma—you should of seen Enright's face!

They is nothin' like givin' the other guy somethin' to worry about. It all helps.

We are due to go in trainin' for Enright within a few weeks, and durin' that time the Kid got no peace from his father and the beautiful Dolores Brewster. Both of 'em seemed to have the idea that Kid Roberts was goin' to his grave if he climbed into a ring with the man-killin' Enright, and they begged him to call it a day and retire a undefeated and still livin' champion. The newspapers helped their arguments a whole lot. They was daily pictures of Enright, now the "sensational young challenger for the world's heavyweight championship." Kid Roberts would be lucky to go three rounds with this baby. He'd been away

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 from the ring too long, and bein' in the movies had softened him up. Anybody which could get past the first couple of rounds with him would take him. They never come back, etc.

All this stuff might of got my goat, only I had seen every word of it printed before about the guy Kid Roberts had took the title away from. You've seen it too. It never changes. The only difference is in the names.

The night before we're leavin' town for the long trainin' grind, we have a farewell dinner at Senator Brewster's home on Fifth Avenue. The Sen's igloo would make Buckin'ham Palace look like a stable. The Kid's father is there, lookin' like the king of the world with his fine big handsome head of steel-gray hair and class engraved on him from toe to forehead. Here's a guy which used to make 'em sit up and beg on Ticker Boulevard, and now he's just dubbin' along here and there—and waitin'. Across the long table is Kid Roberts and Dolores Brewster—the collar-ad guy come to life and talkin' to the magazine-cover girl! Every time I look at Dolores the room begins to wiggle and wobble, so I gaze down at my ballroom armor and wonder how in the Hades I ever come to be sittin' in with a swell mob like this.

"It isn't often I try to advise you, Kane," says old man Halliday, "but I do wish you would drop this—eh—this boxing business now. You've done about all you set out to do, and to say that we're all proud of you, boy, is rather weakly expressing it. It isn't necessary for you to continue longer in this beastly—"

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 "Yes, Kane, do give it up now!" chimes in Dolores, presentin' the Kid with a glance for which I would of give up a leg. "Please don't fight this—oh, this terrible brute who killed a man! I—"

The Kid grins and holds up his hand. "Just a moment, both of you," he says. "I am to receive three hundred thousand dollars—pardon the vulgar mention of money, but in my case it is obviously the incentive—for engaging in two bouts, the first of which is with this Enright fellow. I am taking no more risk—perhaps less—with him than I have in the other bouts I've engaged in. The three hundred thousand means a fair start back for father and"—he smiles at Dolores—"and at least that you may have a maid, a modest shopping account, a—"

"Look here, son," interrupts old man Halliday, "I appreciate the force of your argument, but I do not want my son killed to make a—well, to make a Roman Halliday, one might say!"

"Good heavens, dad, what an atrocious pun!" says the Kid. "Consider your case lost!"

"You know it will not make any difference to me whether or not we have—I mean, I have servants or a shopping account, or—or anything," says Dolores, whose old man has six dollars for every salmon in the Columbia River, "I'd love to make my own gowns and cook and—and everything!"

"Ha, ha, ha, ha!" remarks her father, old Senator Brewster. "And yet they say prohibition has removed all the humor from dinner parties!"

Old man Halliday tries his luck again.

"At least, Kane," he says—"at least you might hold

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 off for a bit—postpone this bout with Enright. If the break comes in Mexicali Oil—you recall that stock I spoke to you about the other day?—if, as I say, the break comes, we may not need your three hundred thousand so imperatively."

"Dad," says the Kid, still grinnin', "just how much money have you put in Mexicali Oil?"

"About every penny I possess," says the old man, calmly knockin' the ash off his cigar.

The Kid throws up both hands and makes a face. "You're incurable, dad," he says, pretendin' to be sore—and then he turns and laughs to the others. "Now do you see how necessary it is for me to earn that three hundred thousand? Dad will have us both broke again in a couple of days!" We've all got up from the table by this time and the Kid throws his arm affectionately around his father's shoulders. "Father," he says with a wink, "I'm going to invest my end of the purse for this fight in a stock that in the matter of returns will make your wildest plunges of the old days seem tame. I expect at least three to one for my original investment!"

"What is the stock called?" asks the old man. "I'll look it—"

"You won't find this listed anywhere!" the Kid shuts him off. "Now, dad, don't ask questions. Wall Street is your game, mine is boxing—temporarily at least. You stick to your operations and I'll stick to mine, and after I've fought Enright we'll see who's ahead!"

The old man nods. "Very well, Kane," he says, "I won't interfere again."

But he did.

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 Well, all this stock business and the like was Russian to me, and I was glad when Senator Brewster made the crack that all us strong men go into the library for coffee and a smoke, leavin' the Kid and Dolores to play tiddledywinks or the etc., as the Kid was blowin' for his trainin' quarters the next day and they might not get a chance for another game for some time. As the hour come to leave, I am greatly surprised to see that the lovely Dolores's face shows signs of the weeps as she comes to the door with me and Kid Roberts, sendin' the butler away. She's still pleadin' with the Kid to pass up Enright.

"Now, dear, you must stop worrying," says the Kid, pattin' a ivory and satin shoulder. "I never felt more confident of victory in my life than I do regarding this bout! You've heard your father and mine talk until you have the idea that this Enright is some sort of superbrute—a human gorilla who will tear me to pieces. Nonsense! I'll tell you something, Dolores, to set your fears at rest. I meant to keep this as a surprise, and I don't want you to tell father or the Senator. I'm so sure that I will defeat Enright without extending myself that I am going to wager every penny of my end of the purse—$150,000—that I will win inside of six rounds! I expect to get odds of three or four to one. That's the investment I had in mind when I told father I was plunging in a stock that would make his Mexicali Oil seem tame. Would I do that—risk everything—if I had the slightest doubt as to the outcome?"

I'm sorry, boys and girls, but I can't tell you what Dolores said, because I nearly broke my neck staggerin'

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 down the steps in a swoon! Bettin' on the round with a tough nut like Enright, hey? Woof!

The minute old man Halliday has said good night. After we get to the hotel, I dragged the Kid in my room and shut the door.

"I ain't no keyhole hound," I says, "but bein' on the steps up at the house like I was just now, I heard you tell Miss Brewster you was goin' to bet your end of the Enright purse that you'll stop this guy in six rounds."

"Well, keep it quiet," he says after lookin' at me for a minute. "I don't want my father to know anything about it—yet."

"You don't want—you don't mean to tell me you actually intend makin '  a sucker bet like that, do you?" I gasps.

"I was never more in earnest!" he says, bangin' his fist down on the bureau. "The minute you collect our money, three days or whatever it is before the fight, you get it down—you'll know where—on me to win by a knockout inside of six rounds. I want every cent of it covered when I step into the ring!"

"A hundred and fifty grands!" I breathed. "You're cuckoo!"

"Not at all," he says impatiently. "Good Lord, I never was surrounded by so many crape hangers in my life! After this fight I expect to have something like half a million dollars, for I'll stop Enright in a couple of rounds as sure as my name is Halliday! Or maybe," he adds, suddenly turnin' a hard stare on me—"maybe you think I won't?"

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 "Look here," I says. "You'll win on the bit, but, Kid, don't try to call the round on this guy; don't do it! For one thing, he'll be in there to stay, and they's nothin' in the world harder to stop than a tough tramp which won't try—won't open up, but just dogs it to keep on his feet for a certain number of frames. He'll curl up in a knot and you'll break your hands on his head—you'll never see his jaw from the first bell! If you got to bet at all, bet ten grands—ten thousand bucks, that's—"

"I'll bet it all—minus yours if you want your share taken out first!" he interrupts coldly. "Your confidence in me is certainly encouraging. Just figure how much you have coming, and—"

"Oh, shoot the piece as far as I'm concerned," I says. "You know I'm with you whether school keeps or not. But, look here, we both know you'll murder this goof, but suppose you can't knock him stiff for seven rounds, even—why, you're broke, ain't you? Ain't you slipped your old man the rest of your roll?"

"Yes," he says. "I have at this minute about five thousand dollars. The rest I've given father, and he has it tied up in that oil stock—which means that's gone! It's all or nothing this time. I'll show them whether or not I'm through as a fighter—I'll step out of that ring still champion and worth half a million, or just a heavyweight boxer without a penny, one or the other. Eh—good night!"

With that he slams out of the room.

The next afternoon we have two callers before train time. One is Jimmy McManus, the promoter. After

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 hemmin' and hawin' all over the place, he comes out flat with a offer of a $25,000 bonus for us if we let Enright stay fifteen rounds so's the movin picturesmovin' pictures [sic] of the muss will be worth somethin'. The newspaper guff about the Kid bein' through hadn't fooled Jimmy. Kid Roberts escorts James to the door politely and tells him to give his twenty-five thousand fish to the Red Cross, because he is goin' to do his best to stop Enright with a punch, and to Hades with the pictures.

The second caller made James McManus and his $25,000 bribe look like a piker. It was no less than Senator Brewster himself. The Kid apologizes for goin' right on with his packin', explainin' that we got but a scant forty minutes to catch a train. The Sen clears his throat a couple of times, gives me a four-dollar cigar, and says maybe we ain't goin' to catch a train.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Senator," says the Kid, lookin' up quickly from his suit case. "There's nothing wrong, is there? Dolores—"

"Nothing wrong, no," grunts the Senator, puffin' smoke heavy. "Look here, Kane—according to your own statemient, the only reason you're going through with this Enright fight, and the one after that, is because of the $300,000 involved so that you can quit the ring with a competence, that right?"

"Exactly!" says the Kid, slammin' shut the suit case.

"Well, Kane," says the Senator. "Eh—I've had a conference with Dolores, and as you probably know she's all cut up over this thing of you going on fighting—eh—especially this Enright bout. You know, my

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