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Rh of her in these terms, he is but guessing at the future. He did not mention Lady Murasaki at all in this conversation, but I know quite well that in his heart of hearts he puts her above all the rest—so far indeed that he would never dream of mentioning her in such a reckoning as this; and, great gentleman though he is, I have heard him tell her again and again that she deserves a husband a thousand times better than he. I have often thought that having had about him at the start such peerless ladies as those whom I have mentioned, he might well chance to end his days without once finding their like. But now I see that I was wrong; for Madam here is fully their match. Trust me, I shall not say anything high-flown, nor would he listen to fine phrases such as “The light that shines from her countenance is brighter than Buddha’s golden rays.” I shall just say “See her, and you will not be disappointed.” ’ So said Ukon, smiling benevolently at the company. But the nurse, who knew nothing, it must be remembered, of Genji’s connection with Yūgao nor of any reason why he should interest himself in Tamakatsura, was somewhat disconcerted. ‘I am sure I thank you very heartily for suggesting this,’ she said; ‘and indeed you will believe that no one cares more for this young lady’s future than I do, when I tell you that I gave up house and hearth, quitted sons, daughters and friends, and came back to the City which is now as strange to me as some foreign town—all this only for Lady Tamakatsura’s sake; for I hated to see her wasting her youth in a dismal place where there was not a soul for her to speak to…. No indeed! I should be the last person to interfere with any plan that promises to bring her to her own again; and I am sure that among the grand people whom you have mentioned she would have a much better chance of doing something for herself in the world…. But I must say that, with her father at Court

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176 all the while, it seems to me a queer thing to quarter her on a perfect stranger. Perhaps I do not quite understand what you propose … but wouldn’t it be more natural to tell her father that she is here and give him a chance of acknowledging her? That is what we have been trying to do, and we shall be very glad if you would help us.’ The conversation was overheard by Tamakatsura; she felt very uncomfortable at being thus publicly discussed and, shifting impatiently in her seat, sat with her back to the talkers. ‘I see you think I am taking too much upon myself,’ said Ukon. ‘I know quite well that I am no one at all. But all the same Prince Genji often sends for me to wait upon him and likes me sometimes to tell him about anything interesting that I have seen or heard. On one occasion I told him the story of Madam here—how she had been left motherless and carried off to some distant province (for so much I had heard). His Highness was much moved by the story, begged me to make further enquiries and at once let him know all that I could discover….’ ‘I do not doubt,’ said the nurse, ‘that Prince Genji is a very fine gentleman. But it seems from what you tell me that he has a wife of whom he is fond and several other ladies living with him as well. He may for the moment have been interested in your story; but I cannot imagine why you should suppose he wants to adopt her, when her own father is so close at hand. It would oblige me if you would first help us to inform Tō no Chūjō of Madam’s arrival. If nothing comes of that…’

Ukon could keep up her end no longer. Unless she told the nurse of Genji’s connection with Yūgao, further conversation would be impossible. And having got so far as to confess that Genji had known Yūgao, Ukon plunging desperately on finally managed to tell the whole terrible story. ‘Do not think,’ she said at last, ‘that Genji has

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Rh forgotten all this, or will ever do so. It has been his one desire since that day to find some means of expiating, in however small a degree, the guilt which brought my lady to her unhappy end; and often I have heard him long that he might one day be able to bring such happiness to Lady Yūgao’s child as would in some sort make amends for all that she had lost. Indeed, having few children, he has always planned, if she could but be found, to adopt her as his own, and he begged me to speak of her always as a child of his, whom he had placed with country folk to be nursed.

‘But in those days I had seen very little of the world and was so much scared by all that had happened that I dared not go about making enquiries. At last I chanced one day to see your husband’s name in a list of provincial clerks. I even saw him, though at some distance, the day he went to the Prime Minister’s palace to receive confirmation of his new appointment. I suppose I ought to have spoken to him then; but somehow or other I could not bring myself to do so. Sometimes I imagined that you had left Lady Tamakatsura behind, at the house in the Fifth Ward; for the thought of her being brought up as a little peasant girl on the island was more than I could endure….’

So they spent the day, now talking, now praying, or again amusing themselves by watching the hordes of pilgrims who were constantly arriving at the temple gate. Under their windows ran a river called the Hatsuse, and Ukon now recited the acrostic poem: ‘Had I not entered the gate that the Twin Fir-Trees guard, would the old river of our days e’er have resumed its flow?’ To this Tamakatsura answered: ‘Little knew I of those early days as this river knows of the hill from whence it sprang.’ She sat gently weeping. But Ukon made no effort to comfort her, feeling that now all was on the right path. Considering Tamakatsura’s upbringing no one would have blamed her if there

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178 had been a little country roughness, a shade of over-simplicity in her manner. Ukon could not imagine how the old nurse had achieved so remarkable a feat of education, and thanked her again and again for what she had done. Yūgao’s ways had till the last been timid, docile, almost child-like; but about her daughter there was not a trace of all this. Tamakatsura, despite her shyness, had an air of self-assurance, even of authority. ‘Perhaps,’ thought Ukon to herself, ‘Tsukushi is not by any means so barbarous a place as one is led to suppose.’ She began thinking of all the Tsukushi people she had known; each individual she could recall was more coarse-mannered and uneducated than the last. No; nurse’s achievement remained a mystery.

At dusk they all went back to the temple, where they stayed that night and most of the following day, absorbed in various spiritual exercises. A cold autumn wind was blowing from the valley, and at its cruel touch the miseries of the past rose up one by one before Shōni’s widow as she knelt shivering at the Main Altar. But all these sad memories vanished instantly at the thought that the child upon whom she had lavished her care would now take the place that was her birth-due. Ukon had told her about the careers of Tō no Chūjō’s other children. They seemed all of them to be remarkably prosperous, irrespective of the rank of their various mothers, and this filled the old lady with an additional sense of security.

At last the moment came to part. The two women exchanged addresses and set out upon their different ways: Ukon to a little house Genji had given her, not far away from his new palace; the others to their lodgings in the Ninth Ward. No sooner had they parted than Ukon was suddenly seized with a panic lest Tamakatsura should attempt to evade her, as Yūgao had fled from Chūjō in days

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"Fortune can take away riches, but not courage!"

This example of the use writin' implements can be put to was composed by Mr. Lucius A. Seneca, a Roman wisecracker which manipulated a terrific pen and ink in the year 0065. Eighteen hundred years after Seneca paid his respects to Lady Luck, as mentioned above, Kane Halliday made that his motto and proved it to be as true as it was when Luce first pulled it on his admirin' friends.

I guess Kane Halliday is better known to you as Kid Roberts, the name under which he win the world's heavyweight title, with me as his pilot. I got him from Dummy Carney for nothin'—won him on a bet, in fact—when the Kid was just a big, strong, willin' boy, a glutton for punishment and a spendthrift at handin' it out, but with no knowledge what the so ever about the fine points of the glove game. And boxin's got fine points, don't think it ain't! Well, I supplied that part of it and in somethin' like three years I made

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 him a champion. Then Kid Roberts made the fatal mistake of tryin' to box two guys at once—Cupid and Knockout Pierce. The chubby little pinweight with the bow and arrow crashed him in love with Dolores Brewster, eye-soothin' daughter of Senator Brewster, a baby with a criminal bank roll, and a fifty-six degree fight fan. The Kid begin chasin' to dinners and dances, boundin' around nightly with the fair Dolores and doin' his trainin' by proxy. The result was that Knockout Pierce, a tomato the Kid would ordinarily of knocked for a loop in a round, smacked my boy friend from under his title. After that little incident Kid Roberts retired from the ring with plenty jack and wedded himself to Dolores Brewster.

Then the fun begin!

Instead of simply livin' happy ever after like they do in a novel, why, a series of experiences begin for the Kid which made his previous adventures look about as excitin' as the directions for making coffee!

To start with, I don't think we ever had a heavyweight champ which reached the ring by the via of the route Kid Roberts took, or that we've ever had a box fighter like him. He was the mock turtle's monocle and no mistake! He was one of the show spots at Yale when he stalled around the New Haven hideout —football star, trackteam mainstay, and this and that—till his father, J. A. Halliday, the big Wall Street speculator batted out of turn and got sent to the cleaners. The old man lost about everything but his initials, and when the smoke died away the Kid sent him to South America to think matters over, while he

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 left Yale flat on its shoulder blades and set forth to put his male parent on the Big Time again.

Bein' built for the game, he turned to the ring, and if he missed goin' through college, why, that's about the only thing he didn't go through! We barred nobody, no weight, no distance, no color, no battle ground. Pretty soon we got nothin' but money and the Kid brings his old man back to the U. S. and sets him up in business again. A good son, what?

But the Wall Street bee was still buzzin' around old J. A. Halliday's bean and tryin' to get rid of it was like tryin' to get rid of diphtheria. Him and the Kid dives into the business end of the movie game for a while, but neither of them knew what it was all about, and they dropped plenty pennies in that. Then while the Kid and his fair young bride is takin' a breeze around the world to bust up a dull summer, old man Halliday breaks out with a ambition to corner the grain market. What they done to him was pitiful, no foolin'! This time they didn't even leave him his life, because the shock of this second failure broke him in half and he got a stroke and died. The heart-broken Kid, which had been nuts over his dad, scurries back from Europe to find his father had left him nothin' but debts, and the Kid spends his last solitary dime payin' off. Then he sends for me.

When I got his wire I come on the run, as I'd come from the grave if he wanted me. Me and Kid Roberts was never just manager and fighter, we was the greatest thing two men can be—pals! So when I trip up the marble steps of his Long Island palace, I'm runnin'

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 over in my mind a dozen schemes to help him out of his jam. The funny thing is that the stunt the Kid actually did, and the one you'd imagine I'd think of first, didn't even enter my head. Kid Roberts had never liked fightin'—hated the game, in fact—and only laced on the gloves in the first place to put his old man on his feet, like I told you. When he lost his title to Knockout Pierce and married Dolores Brewster, he publicly announced that he was through with boxin' for all time, and I guess he meant it, but circumstances alter cases, as the Hindus says.

Anyways, this day the Kid took me into his beautiful library and we pulled up easy-chairs near the big French window overlookin' the lawn. I didn't start to tell him how sorry I was about his father which he had just buried. I just gripped his hand and held it—that told him all of it.

"Well, Joe," he says after a bit, with a kind of nervous grin, "I—I'm broke again!"

"That's where you're wrong," I remark pleasantly. "You got twenty-five grand!"

I had come prepared, and I flung a certified check on the table.

"Half my roll, Kid," I says. "I got fifty-odd grand; there'll be more when you need it!"

Kid Roberts sits forward in his chair and looks at me for a minute with a extremely odd expression on his face. Then he picks up my check and gazes at it kind of wonderin'ly, gulpin' a couple of times and fin'ly blowin' his nose with much violence. I busied myself watchin' the autos shootin' past the house on the

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 Merrick Road till the Kid gets up and slaps me on the shoulder. He pushes my check back in my hand.

"I might have known you would do something just like that," he says. "Old fellow, you put new life in me! But that isn't why I sent for you, Joe. I'm not going to borrow any money, I'm going to earn it!"

"You got to have a stake to go in business, Kid," I come back at him. "I'm ready to tackle anything with you, but we'll need jack to play any game, won't we?"

"Not the one I'm going to play, Joe," says the Kid. "I'm going back to the ring!"

Wam! For a second I think my comely ears is lyin' to me. I'm dumfounded and tickled silly at one and the same time. Before I can make any remarks, the Kid goes on.

"Joe, I have given my rather desperate situation a great deal of serious consideration—lost a good many nights' sleep over it. I've taken stock of myself and my worldly possessions, and I've nothing I can realize a dollar on—except my fists!"

"How 'bout this trap here?" I ask, lookin' around a room which must of cost ten thousand bucks to furnish if it cost a dime.

"Mortgaged to the hilt!" answers the Kid briefly, and goes on: "I've had practically no business experience nor training in any of the arts or sciences, and my forced departure from Yale terminated my studies in engineering. On the other hand, I'm still under thirty and in splendid physical condition as a result of clean living and daily exercise. Also, Joe, the present contenders in the heavyweight division, apart from the

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 champion, do not appear to me to be any more formidable than the ones I defeated when I held the title myself. What do you think?"

"Kid," I says, throwin' my arms around his shoulders, "you been out of the game and you ain't gettin' no younger, but I think you can do anything—that's somethin', you know!"

"Well, then, will you take charge of my affairs again?" asks the Kid.

"Absolutely!" I says, slappin' him on the back. "We'll start over the long roads to fame and fortune together, Kid, and I don't know no trip I'd rather take!"

"But it isn't at all necessary!" remarks a soft voice behind us, and we both swing around to face the Kid's wife, Dolores.

She sure was somethin' to think about as she stood there framed in the doorway. I must of saw Dolores Halliday several million times in the past five years, but I never yet been able to gaze at her without gettin' a thrill! The Kid looks at her, frownin', and I reach for my cap, preparin' to take the air. But Dolores stops me.

"Don't go, Joe," she says, smilin' pleasantly at me. "I may need your moral support." Then she turns to the Kid: "I wasn't eavesdropping, Kane," she says. "I just happened to be passing the room, and I couldn't help overhearing part of your conversation. Surely you are not seriously proposing to become a pugilist again?"

Her voice sounds horrified, and the Kid looks a bit uneasy. However, he pulls over a chair for her, and the three of us sits down by the window. It's bright

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 and sunny outside, but I can feel there's a heavy storm brewin' right in that room!

"Dolores," says the Kid quietly, "boxing is the one thing at which I am proficient, and it offers the quickest route to financial independence for me. I can earn more with a few bouts than I could in a few years at anything else I might undertake. I'm not going back to the ring because I like it, but because it is the only alternative for me in this crisis!"

"I do not agree that the situation is as desperate as all that," says Dolores. "And I most certainly object to your becoming a prize fighter again under any circumstances whatever! You know that I have an income from father that—"

"That has nothing to do with me!" the Kid finishes for her, jumpin' up suddenly and beginnin' a nervous pacin' of the room.

Dolores reads the signs and tries another lead.

"Well, you might at least consider me, Kane," she says. "You might think of my—of our—social position and what will happen to it if you become a professional boxer again. Then there are my political aspirations—what of those? I threw myself into politics to please you, Kane—you needn't smile, I did! I didn't want to just live on your money. I wanted a career of my own, knowing how you detest parasites of either sex. Now, when it is almost certain that I will be nominated for State senator from our district, you are contemplating a step that will ruin everything!"

Kid Roberts stops his patrol of the room and looks down at her.

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 "It will ruin your career if the fact becomes known that your husband is proceeding about the business of earning his living?" he asks her, with a grim smile.

Dolores grabs him, layin' her pretty head against his arm. "Oh, Kane, do give up this absurd idea!" she coaxes, and, believe me, she'd give a stone statue a kick! "Things are not nearly as bad as they seem to you. Why can't we—why can't we live on my money until something better presents itself!"

"A moment ago you expressed your contempt of parasites; now you would have me be one, eh?" says the Kid, pattin' her head. "No, Dolores, as Joe would say: 'That's out!' I have seen too many good men—that is originally they had character and ambition—ruined by that same arrangement; living on their wife's money. Surely it is more honorable for me to earn my living boxing than to exist on your bounty, isn't it?"

"There is nothing honorable about prize fighting!" snaps Dolores, lettin' go his arm. "I despise the whole low, sordid atmosphere that surrounds it. How can you even think of entering that beastly profession again?"

Kid Roberts looks like he had a hot comeback on the tip of his tongue, but at that critical minute Dolores's father, Senator Brewster, enters the room, and she greets him with a sigh of relief. Re-enforcements is comin' up, so to speak.

"Father!" says Dolores excitedly, "Kane wants to become a prize fighter again: what do you think of that?"

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 "I think it's splendid!" booms the scrap-lovin' senator, shakin' the Kid's hand heartily, while Dolores Jets forth a gasp.

"And I thought you would help me dissuade him!" she moans, and begins to weep.

Well, both the Kid and the senator rushes to soothe her, and I felt as out of place as a pair of white duck pants in a coal mine. While Dolores is enjoyin' a good, comfortin' cry, Kid Roberts explains to her father just why he has to say it with wallops again. The senator looks thoughtful, hems and haws a few, and then volunteers to place any sum, in or out of reason, to the Kid's credit at the bank. That made the third offer of important dough Kid Roberts had that day, and it was like offerin' a dress suit to a guy in prison for a minute later the Kid files his third refusal.

The senator acts somewhat put out, but I thought I seen a glint of admiration in the old boy's eyes as he shakes the Kid's hand again and turns his back to Dolores.

There is no admiration in her eyes, though, and that's certain! The more Kid Roberts talks about his plans to become a leather pusher again the more his charmin' spouse burns up, and pretty soon a red-hot argument is under way. It winds up by Dolores declarin' that if the Kid as much as laces on a pair of boxin gloves, she will go abroad till he "comes to his senses," as she puts it. Kid Roberts pleads with her to see America first, but he gets no further with Dolores than she gets with him in her attempt to keep him out of the ring.

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 Both stubborn and high-spirited, there's no give to either of 'em, and the results is that a couple of weeks after this stormy session Dolores shove off for Europe with some of her playmates. So's that their friends and the newspapers won't get hep to the split, Kid Roberts goes to the dock with her, and they put on what has all the earmarks of a lovin' farewell. It might of fooled the innocent bystanders, but it didn't fool the Kid or Dolores. It's a cinch that both of 'em knew that this partin', their first, was what is known in Idaho as a crisis!

So Kid Roberts has not only to grab himself a bank roll, but he also faces the man's-size job of winnin' back his own wife.

I guess the beauteous Dolores was just about passin' Sandy Hook when Kid Roberts tells me to get him a scuffle at once.

"With who?" I ask amiably.

"Why, with the heavyweight champion, of course!" he answers promptly. "As an ex-champion, I should be given preference over any other challenger for the title, according to all traditions of the ring. A few weeks' training will have me in shape to put up the battle of my life."

I grinned at him.

"Listen, Kid," I says. "Not so fast. If we're goin' to start at all, we might as well start accordin' to Hoyle. In spite of the fact that you're built like a watch and are in wonderful condition, you'd prob'ly be a pushover right now for the worst boloney I could excavate for you, let alone the champ!"

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 "But I can't afford to be idle long," says the Kid impatiently. "I must"

"And you can't afford to have some tenth-rate banana knock you kickin' in your first start either!" I shut him off.

"I guess you're right, Joe," says Kid Roberts after a minute.

The matter of a contract between me and the Kid don't use up five minutes. We make the same deal we did when Kid Roberts was boxin' before—65-35 on the loot and no papers to be signed—a "gentlemen's agreement."

The next important subject is the best place for the Kid's trainin' to begin. Well, I pick a lumber camp as fillin' the bill in every way. I figure the hard work in the open fresh air will be the quickest way to toughen up the Kid's frame and work him into fightin' trim—or else convince the both of us that he can't come back. We also make up our minds that what the sport writers don't know about us won't hurt 'em, that is, till we find out for ourselves whether or no Kid Roberts can make the grade. So we get all dressed up like a couple of tramps and begin to wander from one employment agency to another, pesterin' 'em for a pair of jobs as lumber jacks.

We fin'ly get hired and shipped with a mob of fearful-lookin' rough and readies to a loggin' camp in Canada. We ain't been in it a hour when we get in a jam and Kid Roberts is forced to do his stuff. It come about like this: Me and the Kid goes down to St. Thérèse, the little slab which is as far as the rail-

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 road brings you to the camp, to lay in a stock of clothes which our foreman says we'l! need in order to hold our jobs.

Cravin' to shop, we go in the general store run by a French Canuck entitled Honoré Collet. As there has just been a pay day on the river, the joint is packed to the doors with lumberjacks wantin' to buy everything in sight.

There's only two people to wait on 'em, Mons. Honoré Collet and his daughter, Désirée, and believe me, Désirée was considerable female! I'd guess her age as seventeen, and as she packed a face and form which would create a disturbance on Broadway, why, you can imagine what a panic she must of been up in that little timber town, where a good-lookin' woman is about as common a sight as a six-headed cat.

Anyways, she's wrappin' up this and wrappin' up that, the while laughin' and kiddin' with the red-blooded and slightly stewed he-men from God's Country, as the authors calls it. The second she pegs Kid Roberts she immediately shows him all her pretty white teeth and starts right over to wait on us. I have yet to see the lady which didn't get pleasant the minute she seen Kid Roberts. However, I know that he's overboard over Dolores, so I don't get frightened, as even if Désirée Collet has fell for my boy friend, it takes two to make a romance the same as it does to make a quarrel.

Well, Désirée had been in the midst of waitin' on somebody else when she drops everything for the Kid. The deserted customer, a six-foot husky as drunk as a

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 monkey, gets red-headed. He grabs the girl roughly by the arm and tries to pull her back. This don't fall in with her plans, and she lets forth a little scream, gettin' instant action!

Kid Roberts had started plowin' his way through the crowd when the souse started for Désirée, and he reaches her just as the anti-prohibitionist is puttin' a arm around her shapely waist. There was no time wasted on introductions. The Kid grabs the lumberjack by the back of the neck with one hand and by the bottom of his corduroy jacket with the other and shakes him till the buttons flew off. Then he arches his powerful back and throws Mr. Drunk through the door.

"Merci, monsieur," says Désirée to the Kid with a smile that amply repaid him for his trouble, or should of.

"Don't mention it—glad to be of service," says the Kid, grinnin' back and presentin' her with a bow which has goaled many's the drawin' room. "I would like to see a mackinaw, not too vivid in color and about forty-two chest, I believe."

Before Désirée can answer, somebody shoves in between us and snarls at the Kid: "Where d'ye get that stuff—tossin' people out of here, you big stiff?"

One glance and I see the panic is on!

The stranger looks to me like he just stepped out of some circus where he was makin' his livin' bitin' sledge hammers in half and havin' automobile races run off on his chest. Kid Roberts views him with interest, but Désirée is plainly scared stiff. She seems to know who

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 this mug is, as does the rest of the gang which gathers round us with pleased grins on their pans.

Beyond that first curious glance, Kid Roberts pays no further attention to this baby, and, tryin' to smooth things over, Désirée nervously asks can she wait on him.

"No!" grunts the cave man. "I want this fellow here to wait on me!" With that he grabs hold of the Kid's shoulder and swings him around. "What's the matter—lose your tongue?" he sneers. "Or are you just plain yellow? You was brave enough when you throwed 'at poor helpless drunk out of here to show off before the girl, wasn't you? Well, I ain't drunk; le'ss see you throw me out!"

"Be yourself, you big scissor-billed dumbell!" I sneer, edgin' between 'em. "The first thing you know you'll get a proper smackin'. You get rosy with us and we'll lay you like linoleum!"

"Easy there, Joe!" warns the Kid, steppin' in front of me. "Don't get excited over nothing, old man," he tells this big hick, "and don't take my hot-headed friend seriously. I didn't intend to create any disturbance by ejecting that drunkard. He was annoying the young lady, and I only did what any other man would have done under the circumstances. There's nobody hurt, so let's forget about it."

"Forget nothin'!" growls the other guy, rollin' up his sleeves. "I'm goin' to give the both of you the lickin' of your lives, you dirty"

Never mind what he called us—that was his hard luck! Désirée gets fiery red and backs away. The

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 crowd laughs and moves closer. I snatched a very comfortin'-lookin' ax off the counter and was heftin' it, when the Kid come through. His face has went as red as Désirée's did, and then it gets fightin' white. He measures the big guy with his blazin' eye, then checks up that measurement with a straight left. The big fellow's lowered head come up with a jerk in time to keep a date with the right hook which had once made Kid Roberts a world's champion. Plock! Down goes Mister Big Boy with a crash which shook the store, and I guess if they hadn't swept him up he'd be lyin' there yet. When me and Kid Roberts walked out through a lane of dazed-lookin' lumberjacks five minutes later, the Kid's prey was still gettin' first aid from disgusted friends.

Well the next day we get routed out of the bunk house at the horrible hour of five in the mornin', and the camp boss sends us out in the woods with a crew. It was colder than Zero's home town, so it's a case of work snappy or turn into a icicle. Kid Roberts throws himself into the job of toughenin' up his long idle muscles with a gusto, but it was different here! After three or four hours of choppin' and sawin' I was satisfied that lumber-jackin' was all wrong.

When I moan to Kid Roberts he laughs at me, sayin' that he's takin' as much punishment as I am and likewise it was me which choosed the lumber camp in the first place. His advice to me is to take it and shut up. This fails to comfort me to any great extent and many's the time I wished we had picked a cream-puff factory or the like as trainin' quarters. Be-

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 lieve me, I got all the lumber campin' I could tolerate, and every time I see a toothpick any more I get a pain in my back from thinkin' of that wood factory in dear old St. Thérèse!

When we come in for chow that night we got quite a shock. The hard work in the clear frosty air of the north woods has made our appetites like a boa constrictor's, and me and the Kid give the meal such a beatin' that the cook, known as Ptomaine Joe around the camp, comes into the mess hall to look us over. That's where we got the shock. The cook is no less than the big guy which Kid Roberts slapped for a turnip the day before in Honoré Collet's store!

Both me and Kid Roberts figure we're in for a brawl, and we jump from our stools, ready for action. But, after a puzzled look, Ptomaine Joe comes over to us with a broad smile on his homely pan and a hand like a ham outstretched to the Kid.

"Howdy!" he says. "Boy, you sure can sock, I'll tell the cross-eyed world! What did you have in your hand when you cuffed me?"

"I believe it was a right hook," smiles the Kid, shakin' his hand. "I'm sorry I—"

"Never be sorry for no clout like 'at," interrupts Ptomaine Joe. At was a peach! Say—is they any chance of you teachin' me 'at punch?"

"Why, I'd be glad to," says Kid Roberts. "You like to box, eh?"

"Like it?" snorts the fightin' cook. "Why, I'm a boxin' fool! I have made everybody on this man's

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 river like it, and they won't be nobody in this outfit push you around whilst you're here, because when you took me you took the champeen of the camp. I don't mind tellin' you 'at I'm goin' to check out of this trap pretty soon and become a perfessional pug!"

Well, he was big enough, there's no question about that, but that glass jaw of his which the Kid had connected with killed off my interest. Still, I figure he might be developed into a good sparrin' partner or handler, so I egged him on.

"Gettin' tired of boxin' the old pots and pans, eh?" Kid Roberts asks him.

"You said it!" says Ptomaine Joe. "I'm goin' to step into the ring as soon as I finish my contract at this dump here. And if you don't take a flyer at the fight game with 'at right hook you got, you're a chump! Of course, you're kind of awkward and clumsy on your feet and you ain't got no class, but you could easy pick  ' at up with experience. In fact, I got a couple of punches I'll teach you myself, 'at's if I find out you're game and willin' to take a little punishment so's to learn how to handle yourself."

Ptomaine Joe tells this to a guy which was once heavyweight champion of the world!

Well, friend cook has been devotin' so much of his valuable time to me and Kid Roberts that the other parsnips sittin' around the chow table begins to bang their knives and forks together and howl for their food. Ptomaine Joe swings around on 'em swiftly and angrily.

"Stop that squawkin', you goofy-lookin' yokels!" he

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 bellers. "I'll throw you your meat in good time. If I hear another peep out of any of you sapolios, I'll knock the lot of you for a trip!"

Them lumberjacks certainly must of thought Ptomaine Joe was good, because the results of that blast was instant silence!

After that things went along smoothly enough, though as a full-blooded New Yorker I never could get infatuated with attackin' them trees with a ax at six o'clock of a foggy, frosty mornin'. Me and manual labor has never been what you could call buddies. Who ever heard of a box fighter's manager workin'? On the other hand, Kid Roberts took to lumberin' like puss takes to cream. He actually seemed to like it, but then the Kid always was a pig for punishment. However, he was most positively doin' himself a world of good. His skin was commencin' to take on a healthy tan, his wind was improvin', his eyes was bright and clear and the soft fat around his belt was bein' replaced by muscles ridged like a washboard. So far I hadn't let him do no boxin' what the so ever; I wanted his body right first.

For a while I thought Désirée Collet was goin' to be quite a problem. Me and the Kid stopped in the store from time to time, buyin' gents' furnishin's and what not, and you didn't have to be no mind reader to see she was rapidly gettin' cuckoo over Kid Roberts. But in spite of their temporary bust-up, the Kid was more than in rove with his wife, and even though she had went to Europe he played the game. He'd learned a lot about the interestin' adjoinin' sex before he got wed,

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 and he knew how to keep from gettin' dizzy when a beautiful girl deliberately set out to make him.

Kid Roberts played around with more than a few, but he only fell in love once, and that was with Dolores. Ladies, that kind of boys seldom cheat, once you land 'em! So the Kid was pleasant with Désirée, but he never accepted the invitation constantly in her shinin' eyes. He treated her like a little sister—which, naturally enough, only made her more keen to make him fall. That's always the way, now ain't it?

Well, as pay day approaches we begin to notice a air of excitement about the camp which wasn't there before. Little groups of lumberjacks gets off in corners together and there is much argument and wavin' of arms about somethin'. Ptomaine Joe, all swelled up like a mump, is treated like he's Henry Ford or Dempsey and one mornin' I catch him punchin' a bag in back of the cook house, with a bunch of guys standin' around and watchin' him admirin'ly.

So we investigate the commotion, and we find there's a feelin' between our camp and another one farther down the river like the feelin' between Germany and France. On pay day Ptomaine Joe is to meet the best man in the other camp for the championship of the river. No wonder the lumber jacks is all excited, when you figure they rarely have any fun, buried up there for months in the cold, lonely north woods, and they have bet every dime they got in the world on the result of the comin' fight.

Ptomaine Joe gets the idea about then that this would be a good time for Kid Roberts to teach him that

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 right to the button, so he asks the Kid to work out with him for a few days. You'd think he was doin' Kid Roberts a great favor by the way he puts his request, but the Kid is itchin' for the feel of padded leather on his hands again and he jumps at the chance before I can butt in and stop him. Ptomaine Joe had a kind of synthetic gym fixed up in the back of the cook house, his only trainin' apparatus bein' a well-worn punchin' bag and two sets of be-draggled and tore eight-ounce gloves.

The first time Kid Roberts and Ptomaine Joe put on the gloves I told the Kid to be mighty careful and not take no unnecessary chances with this big kitchen mechanic, which outweighed him a good fifty pounds and stood four inches taller. Kid Roberts is so crazy to get steppin' that I don't know whether he even heard me or not. But I'm a mighty anxious young man till Ptomaine Joe starts to perform and I see just what he's got. I loathe accidents!

Well, all Ptomaine Joe had was his trunks. He didn't know a straight left from a fryin' pan, and, big as he was, Kid Roberts could of assassinated him had he a mind to. But he didn't—the Kid never beat up no sparrin' partners and was always gentle with these hams which don't know what it's all about, rely'n on his dazzlin' footwork to keep him away from their clumsy but dangerous returns.

They boxed three two-minute rounds by my watch and in all that time I doubt if Ptomaine Joe laid a glove on Kid Roberts, whose speed and science bewildered him. After Josephus has fell sprawlin' on

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 the floor three or four times earnestly tryin' to knock the Kid for a row of washtubs, the pugeylistic cook staggers over and pants for me to unlace his gloves.

"I got all the sparrin' I can take," he gasps. "Boxin' this baby is like boxin' a buzz saw and I don't wish no more of him. 'At ain't all—I ain't goin' to fight this guy from the other camp neither!"

"You mean they have barred you?" asks the Kid, with interest. "Who is going to box him?"

"You are!" grins Ptomaine Joe. "I have just got a rush of brains to the head and barred myself. The pay-day fracas is supposed to be between the two best men on the river, and if you ain't the best man in this outfit, then I'm old Mother Hubbard!"

"But—" begins both me and the Kid.

"You can but if you want to, because you're the goat!" goes on the cook. "Either you fight this mackerel from Beaver Camp or you'll have to take on every guy in this one—all at once! If I was you, I'd fight him. You got more percentage with only one man to stop."

With that Ptomaine Joe goes out to spread the news, leavin' me and Kid Roberts starin' at each other thoughtfully.

Well, of course Ptomaine Joe had no idea that the Kid was a ex-heavyweight champion of the world, as he's down on the books merely as Kane Halliday, his civilian name. So, dumfounded at the Kid's surprisin' ability to hit and get away, the cook advertises him around the camp till we're practically forced into agree-

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 in' to box the bozo from the rival outfit for the championship of the river.

Feelin' that he's to meet a man of no ring experience, Kid Roberts refuses to take what he calls a unsportsmanlike advantage, so he tells Ptomaine Joe he'll accept the bout on one condition. The man he's goin' to meet must be told just who he's goin' to fight.

"I don't make you," says Ptomaine Joe, kind of puzzled. "What difference does it make who you are?"

"This difference," says the Kid, payin' no attention to my frantic nudges: "I happen to be a former world's heavyweight champion. My ring name was Kid Roberts—ever hear of me?"

Ptomaine Joe stares at the Kid like a man in a trance. His lower jaw drops till it nearly hits the floor, and his eyes pops out till you could of hung your hat on either of 'em. Then he rushes over and wrings the Kid's hand.

"Ever hear of you!" he hollers. "I'll say I heard of you! Well, well, well, Kid Roberts, hey? I thought your pan had a familiar look, but all I ever seen was your pictures and—say, no wonder you slapped me dead with a punch! No wonder I couldn't knock you off when we was sparrin' together! Imagine me tryin' to take a ex-champ, 'at's the mule's wings, ain't it? Well, I thought I was through when you made a monkey out of me, but I ain't so bad as I figured. Just because a ex-champ's got too much stuff for me is no sign 'at these jobbies around here can step with me. I think I'll go out now and deliberately knock a few of 'em cold, just to keep my respect for myself!"

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 But I'm disgusted with the Kid for tellin' this egg who he was, because now I know the cook will broadcast the news all over camp. Ptomaine Joe keeps eagerly chatterin' away to the smilin' Kid and winds up by swearin' he's goin' to quit his job and join us when we leave St. Thérèse as a combination sparrin' partner and chef. He knows just what a fighter should eat, bein' one himself, he says modestly, and all he wants in return for his valuable services is boxin' lessons from Kid Roberts. He wouldn't let go till I promised him we'd file his application, and I was more than half in earnest when I done it. We could do lots crazier things than take this guy with us, at that, I figure.

The minute I can make Ptomaine Joe quit admirin' Kid Roberts out loud, I take the enthusiastic cook outside all by himself and talk turkey to him. I make him swear on his cook book he won't tell nobody that the big, good-lookin' lumberjack known as Kane Halliday is really Kid Roberts, ex-world's heavyweight champ. The reason I done that was as simple as Ptomaine Joe himself. For all I know, the champ of the rival outfit may be a scrapper of no little ability. If by some terrible luck Kid Roberts should be flattened himself, why advertise that fact to fistiana when the Kid's tryin' to make a comeback? Ptomaine Joe gets a miraculous flash of intelligence and agrees with me, so the information about who the Kid really is fails to get out.

Kid Roberts knows nothin' about what I've done and he starts down to the battle ground at St. Thérèse on pay day, thinkin' his comin' adversus knows who he is

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 and admirin' the other guy for his gameness and confidence in goin' ahead with the bout against a ex-champ. He tells me he'll be as merciful as possible with the inexperienced logger he expects to face and will try hard for a swift, painless knockout. The ring is pitched in the open a short distance from the town, a twenty-four-foot square bein' roped off on a high, grassy hillock, so that standin' some dozen feet below there's a good chance for everybody to see the mill.

I examined this homemade ring with the greatest of care, and I found nothin' about it to comfort me. The slippery grass made a treacherous footin' at best and a knockdown on that hard turf, instead of a padded mat, was certainly not goin' to do the baby which hit it a bit of good. It sure was a reminder of the old bareknuckle days, when the only rules was to keep on fightin'! Still, we was in there now and claimin' exemptions would of prob'ly cost us both our lives. I don't mind tellin' you I was good and nervous, but Kid Roberts was as cool as a winter wind, though his eyebrows did go up when he first flashed that ring.

"Snap into it, Joe!" he grins to me, when we get to our corner. "You look like a pall bearer, Don't worry, I'll win this bout in short order. If I can't get past this green lumberjack, I may as well give up all hope of returning to the ring. This afternoon my fate is on the knees of the gods!"

"Let's hope the gods don't stretch their legs, then!" I says, gloomily, and stared out over the ropes.

There was prob'ly only a thousand witnesses on hand, just the men from both camps and some sports

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 from the little timber town, but what they lacked in numbers they made up in noise. Believe me, they was one tough-lookin' mob too, with their faded mackinaws and corduroy jackets buttoned around their necks, pants tucked into boots or leggins and so much matted hair on their faces they all looked like fur-bearin' animals to me. Plenty of vicious-lookin' long-bladed knives was stuck in belts, lots of 'em leaned on them murderous woodmen's axes, and here and there the butt of a gat showed in a hip pocket bulge. A ugly bunch, primed for anything and worked to fever heat by smuggled bootleg and the excitement of the comin' battle.

Kid Roberts gets up and smilin'ly bows, wavin' his gloved hands over his head in response to the roar of greetin' from our outfit, and another roar goes up from the other camp when their man is boosted into the ring on the far side. Then things move fast. The referee, who's telegraph operator and railroad agent at St. Thérèse, steps to the center of the ring and holds up his hands for silence. He got immediate service.

"Kane Halliday, champeen of St. Thérèse, weight one hundred and ninety-one and a half pounds," he bawls, very importantly, pointin' to the Kid. "On the other side, Steve Greenly, champeen of Beaver Camp, weight two hundred pounds, even. Three-minute rounds with one-minute rest between, the fight to go to a finish for the champeenship of the river. If there is any attempt to rush the ring by friends of either man, I'll stop the fight and call it no contest. Likewise, before any of you lads out there gets too abusive,

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Rh of old; and constantly running between her house and theirs, she had not a moment’s peace of mind. It was soon time for Ukon to be back at the new palace, and she was not loath to end her holiday, for she was in a hurry to obtain an interview with Genji and inform him of her success. She could not get used to this new mansion, and from the moment she entered the gates she was always astonished by the vastness of the place. Yet so great was nowadays the number of coaches driving in and out, that the crush was appalling and Ukon began to wonder if she would ever get to the house.

She was not sent for that night, and lay tossing about on her bed, thinking how best to make known her discovery. Next day, though it so happened that a large number of ladies-in-waiting and other young people had just returned from their holidays, Murasaki sent specially for old Ukon, who was delighted by this compliment. ‘What a long holiday you have been having!’ cried Genji to her when she entered. ‘When you were last here you looked like some dismal old widow-lady, and here you are looking quite skittish! Something very nice must have happened to you; what was it?’ ‘Sir,’ she answered, ‘it is quite true that I have been away from the City for a whole week; but I don’t know whether anything has happened that you would call nice. I have been over the hills to Hatsuse (on foot too!), and came across someone whom I was glad to meet again.’ ‘Who was that?’ asked Genji quickly, and she was about to tell him when it occurred to her that it would be much better to tell him separately, on some occasion when Murasaki was not present. But then perhaps the whole thing would come round to Murasaki’s ears and her mistress would be offended that Ukon had not told her first…. It was a difficult situation. ‘Well then if you

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 don't forget I got a gun in each hip pocket and sixteen medals for knowin' how to use 'em. I thank you!"

While the mob's still howlin', he calls us to the middle of the ring for his instructions and for the first time me and Kid Roberts gets a good look at the guy we are goin' to fight. The Kid's face suddenly paled and I see his mouth twitch, but I let forth a beller of rage. Mister "Steve Greenly," the alleged lumberjack, is no less than Tiger Enright, a terrific puncher which the Kid once stopped when he was heavyweight champ!

Well, I'm fit to be tied, and tryin' to say too many things at once my tongue gets all twisted and I can't say nothin'. But my brain is simply reelin' around as I realize how them burglars from the other camp has framed us! Kid Roberts had insisted on fair play, wanted to tell the other outfit who he was, and they have went to work and imported a first-class boxer to meet what they figured would be Ptomaine Joe or some tramp like that. What a surprise them yeggs was due for!

But if me and the Kid is amazed and enraged, Tiger Enright is twelve feet past that state. He sees how the attempted double-cross has went blooey and instead of a set-up he's got a two-handed battle starin' him in his queerly workin' face. The referee, after a astonished glance from us to Enright, goes on with his instructions. They wasn't hard to remember, but I don't think Tiger Enright listened!

"Protect yourself at all times, hit on the breakaways or any time you want as long as you keep 'em up above

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 the belt. No wrestlin' or trippin' allowed. Both you men understand all that?" finishes the referee.

"Sure—let's go!" I answers for the Kid, who's busy lookin' at Enright with everything but mercy in his cold gray eyes.

"Holy mackerel—Kid Roberts!" gasps Tiger Enright—his first remark—and the next thing is the bell.

Drove wild by the unexpected appearance of the Kid and the fear of what he will do to him, Tiger Enright dashed off his stool with a desperate rush, hopin' to beat the Kid down by the fury of his attack. He missed a straight left, connected with a torrid right to the heart and then immediately clinched, bangin' away with his free right hand at the Kid's mid-section. Enright was always a terrific body punisher which liked to bore in close and hammer away, and I yelled to Kid Roberts to keep him at long range.

The referee was slow in breakin' 'em, evidently lendin' a kind ear to the shrieks of Enright's friends to "let 'em alone!" On the break, Enright deliberately heeled Kid Roberts with the wrist of his glove, scrapin' some skin off his nose. At a fight club they'd of booed that big stiff for that dirty trick till they was hoarse, but here they cheered him!

Good and sore, Kid Roberts rocked Enright with a right and left to the head, easily duckin' his wild return. Enright then bulled his way in close again and took up his batterin' of the Kid's ribs where he left off before. Kid Roberts was takin' plenty punishment and couldn't seem to get away from it. Fin'ly the

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 referee pushed in between 'em and they danced around, sizin' each other up for a openin'. Kid Roberts saw one first, but was short with a right chop to the jaw. He got a hard left and right hook to the body in return and was gaspin' against the ropes in Enright's corner when the bell rung. Enright's round.

Durin' the rest the bettin' odds around the ring shifted from eight to five to two to one on Enright. At that price Ptomaine Joe got down eight hundred bucks—the savin's of a lifetime—on Kid Roberts, and I grabbed two thousand of that Enright money myself.

Tiger Enright tore out of his corner once more in the second and swept Kid Roberts to the ropes with a volley of rights and lefts to the body. Fin'ly the Kid steadied himself, drove a wicked right to the jaw, and then sunk his left to the trade-mark on the glove in Enright's ribs. Enright's knees sagged and the mob went wild, surgin' around the ring and howlin' like wolves, only louder!

A bit tamed, the Tiger managed to dive into a clinch and again pound the Kid's rapidly reddenin' body. Warned by previous experiences, Kid Roberts tore himself loose and they both landed stiff rights on the break. Enright then shot a straight left to the mouth, bringin' first blood, and followed this with a sizzlin' uppercut to the jaw, but Kid Roberts only shook his head and tore in for more.

The Kid was now well warmed up and hittin' on all cylinders—but, then, so was Enright! Kid Roberts swung hard for head and body and Enright covered up, back-pedalin' around the ring till he felt the ropes

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 against him. Right then and there Tiger Enright come fearfully close to winnin' by a knockout. He suddenly straightened up and shot a terrible left hook to the heart. The Kid's gasp could be heard in Tasmania, and, as he staggered back, Enright plunged after him, held the Kid's head with his left glove, and shot three barbarous rights to the jaw. Kid Roberts sagged on his feet and another right, catchin' him fair under the chin on the Adam's apple—a horrible place to get hit!—dropped him to his knees.

Chokin' for breath, he looked around to me for advice while the referee's countin' arm is risin' and fallin' and the crowd is goin' crazy. I signaled the Kid to take "nine," which he done, and as he rose unsteadily to his feet the bell rung. Another round for Enright, and the odds jump to three to one on him. The mob from our camp is sullen and quiet, whilst the other guys is ravin' maniacs with joy.

Kid Roberts quickly responded to some scientific treatment in his corner and went out for the third round determined to flatten Enright in that frame or get flattened himself. There was a deep gash under his right eye and the left was beginnin' to close. Beyond a set of badly puffed lips, Enright was unmarked.

The first punch in this round was a left to the head landed by Enright, and after that he must of thought he had walked into a cloudburst of boxin' gloves! Startin' his usual rush, he tore in with both hands swingin', to be met by a murderous right to the body that slowed him to a walk. Feintin' for Enright's quiverin' mid-section again, Kid Roberts hooked his

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 right to the point of the jaw and Tiger Enright went down like he'd been hit over the head with a hammer!

Instantly there's a wild uproar around the ring, and the mob mills toward it. This was about the first time the guys from our camp had a chance to cheer and they put a dent in the sky! Enright stumbled to his feet between "nine" and "ten," but all the fight had been punched out of him. He was what you call wilted, what I mean.

I guess maybe that right hook brung back memories of a few years before when Kid Roberts was champion and had knocked him dead with the same clout. At any rate, the Tiger covered up as best he could and tried to work in close, but Kid Roberts had other plans for him. The Kid merely waited coolly till Enright quit swayin' and was a better target, before floorin' him again with a left to the wind and a right to the chin.

When Tiger Enright dizzily got up this time it was plain to the world that he'd shot his bolt and would never hear the bell ring for another round. The din around the ring was enough to bust your eardrums! Seein' their pay bein' swept to our camp by the terrible punches of our man which was beatin' their high-priced ringer, the boys from the other outfit commenced a free-for-all, and in a minute axes and knives was flashin' in the rapidly settin' sun.

Well, the riot stopped quicker than it started. It seemed to me that every guy in our camp had come to the fight with at least one gun, and the referee had two. In spite of the situation bein' exceedin'ly serious, I had to grin at the referee walkin' around inside the ring

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 with a gun in each hand aimed at the crowd and tryin' to watch what Kid Roberts and Tiger Enright was doin' to each other at the same time. He was a hot sketch, no foolin'! The sudden display of artillery and a few wild shots calmed down the other side and the round was finished without no further rude interruptions from the audience. The gong found the battlers in a neutral corner with Tiger Enright hangin' on for his life. This was the Kid's round from here to Japan.

The clang of the bell for round four was still in the air when Kid Roberts jumped in with a left hook to the head that sent the weary Enright crashin' against the ropes. The Kid then turned to the referee and asked him to stop it, but whatever that baby said was drowned by the yellsof "Finish him. Knock him out! You got to stop him to win, you big stiff; let it go!"

Kid Roberts shakes his head sorrowfully, looks at me, and, as he turned, Tiger Enright's knee come up swiftly, but missed the foul he intended. That trick made up the Kid's mind for him! I could see it in the sudden set of his chin, so I got his bathrobe ready. I knew what was comin'. The Kid jabbed Enright lightly with his left, ducked a wild right cross and then socked his own right flush on the jaw, sendin' the Tiger down and out!

They carried Kid Roberts back to the camp on their shoulders, and why wouldn't they? Everybody in our outfit had cashed in on him and some of them lumberjacks had win plenty. Ptomaine Joe, for instance, copped sixteen hundred bucks, and he's maniacally

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 happy. You couldn't get him a inch away from the Kid with a crowbar!

There was some mail for us at the camp, among others things a New York newspaper. On the society page is a picture of Dolores, taken on the beach at a joint in France called Deauville. It says this underneath:

"Hunting big game!" smiles the Kid.

"Absolutely!" I says, matchin' his grin. "Huntin' big game is right! We just killed a Tiger to-day, didn't we?"

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upon a time there was a comely young Eyetalian which rejoiced in the high-soundin' name of Juvenal and got himself no little notoriety as a poet among the boys and girls which capered around Rome in the good old days when Nero, the prominent fiddler, was doin' his stuff. I never met this Juvenal guy personally, but I'd of liked to, on the account he must of been a good skipper, from some of the wise cracks he pulled. As the dashin' manager of a gentleman box fighter, I have got to where I fit a dress suit like I'm poured in it, toy with a wicked cup of tea, dance like St. Vitus, and now and then plow through one of the classical books, so's if the subject comes up I won't think "She Stoops to Conquer" is a story about a scrub lady, for the example. That's how I come to trip over the followin' nifty, from the busy pen of Mr. Juvenal.

"There are few disputes in life which do not originate with a woman!"

Juvy wrote that on a piece of paper nearly two thousand years ago, prob'ly stealin' it from a chance remark of Adam's, and I must say that in my opinion condi-

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 tions ain't changed much since their time. Don't run away with the idea that I am puttin' in a rap for the ladies, because, personally, I think the fair and warmer sex is the rat's rubbers, I do for a fact. But the crack of Juvenal's about the gals bein' at the bottom of most disturbances reminds me of the disturbance started by little Désirée Collet, alias "The Widower's Mite." In a attempt to win herself Kane Halliday she caused considerable dispute—in fact, a dispute for the heavyweight championship of the world.

When me and Kid Roberts bound back to New York after our trip to the loggin' camp, me and my comin' gold mine makes the rounds of the newspaper offices and lets the sport writers in on our modest plans to recapture the world's heavyweight championship, then held by Jim Oliver. We don't want the champion yet. Kid Roberts has been away from the ring too long to step with the title holder after merely knockin' off this Tiger Enright, even if the Bengal was a tough egg and nobody's fool as a leather pusher.

It was no cinch to make Kid Roberts see into this, and don't think it was. The Kid was rarin' to go. He wanted his jack, his title, and his wife back, and a boy like Roberts is not easy to hold when he craves anything! How the so ever, like usually, my judgment prevailed—till along come Désirée Collet. Then the panic was on!

The newspaper guys was simply great to us and we couldn't of got more publicity if we'd of been a couple of six-headed elephants flyin' up Broadway at noon. The big, clean-cut, good-lookin' Kid, especially at home

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180 must know…’ Ukon was beginning, when suddenly there was a fresh incursion of visitors, and she was obliged to withdraw. But later in the day, when the great lamp had been brought in and Genji was sitting quietly with Murasaki, he said that he would soon be ready for bed, and sent for Ukon to give him his evening massage.

Lady Murasaki was now almost twenty-eight, but never (thought the old woman when she arrived) had she looked so handsome. It seemed indeed as though her full charm had only just matured. Ukon had not seen her mistress at close quarters for some months past, and could now have sworn that even in that short space of time Lady Murasaki had grown twice as handsome. And yet Ukon had no fears for Yūgao’s daughter. There was indeed an undeniable difference between this splendid princess and the shy girl from Tsukushi. But it was only the difference between obscurity and success; a single turn of fortune would quickly redress the balance.

‘I do not like being massaged by the new young maids,’ Genji said to Ukon when she arrived. ‘They let me see so plainly how much it bores them to do it. I much prefer some one I have known for a long time … you, for example.’ No such preference had ever been noticed by those about him, and smiles were secretly exchanged. They realized that Genji had only said this in order to please and flatter the old lady. But it was far from true that any of them had ever been otherwise than delighted at the reception of such a command, and they thought the joke rather a tiresome one. ‘Would you be angry with me, if I took to consorting with elderly ladies?’ he whispered to Murasaki. ‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘I think I should. With you one never knows where one is. I should be very much perturbed….’ All the while she was at work Genji amused the old lady with his talk. Never had Ukon seen him so lively and

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 in dress suit or ring togs, always had a million dollars' worth of personality and was a highly popular champion when he held the title, whilst Jim Oliver had as many friends as the flu. Then, again, everything connected with Kid Roberts made him what the sport writers calls "good copy." The swell family he come from, his partin' from his society-leader wife, his record when he was a milk-fed college boy at Yale, what he done for his old man, etc., all furnished stuff "Constant Reader" likes.

After readin' about us for a couple of days, the New York fight promoters got busy. Wild to cash in on the notoriety he was gettin', they want to stage a scuffle between Kid Roberts and Jim Oliver without further ado. But even though they offered us fifty thousand bucks for our end with the privilege of a percentage, I wouldn't let my boy go in there with the champion then, and that's all there was to it!

A few weeks later Kid Roberts is doin' road work through Central Park with Ptomaine Joe to keep in condition for a couple of brawls I'm linin' up, when, lo and behold, as they say in Pittsburgh, we crash right into Désirée Collet and her father at the lake. I knew that Désirée thought Kid Roberts was all the men in the wide, wide world, and that makes me plenty uneasy. Young and good-lookin' enough to bust up anybody's peace of mind, Désirée was about as harmless as dynamite, the way matters shapes up to me.

Anyways, this meetin' was a regular movin' picture. Désirée and her father is havin' a battle with a hard-boiled taxi driver when we arrive on the scene. Pto-

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 maine Joe is the first to spot 'em. This tomato could pick out Désirée two miles away in a fog—he was cuckoo over her, that's the answer. Kid Roberts merely smiles pleasantly as he drags off his cap and bows, but Désirée is just quiverin' with joy.

"Bonjour, mon cher, comment allez-vous?" she says.

"Très bien, merci; et vous? Comment vous portez-vous donc ce matin?" says Kid Roberts, which would of made a monkey out of Napoleon when it comes to talkin' frog.

Then he shakes hands with Désirée's old man and looks from the smilin' girl to the scowlin' chauffeur.

"What's the trouble?" he asks her.

A epidemic of shoulder shakin' and hand wavin' begins.

"Thees cochon," she says, pointin' a sneerin' finger at the frownin' chauffeur. "Thees cochon I engage for drive us to ze 'otel what you call Reetz. Name of a name! He drive us now for two hour around ze park and when I say where is zat 'otel, he tells me 'Nevaire you min', kit, what you care? I geeve you nize long ride!

"The old army game!" growls Ptomaine Joe, and swings at the scared taxi driver. "I'm goin' to rune him!"

Kid Roberts and me grabs Ptomaine, whilst the chauffeur backs away in a panic.

"Lay off me, boss!" he says. "I don't want no frolic with you, that's a cinch! I—I'll pay the fare out of me own pocket—I—I ain't lookin' for no muss, I"

"That will do!" Kid Roberts cuts him off sternly.

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 Then he turns to Désirée. "Where did you engage him?" he asks her.

"At ze Gran' Central," she says, with a bewitchin' smile.

Kid Roberts hands the chauffeur a dollar and tells him to take the air. That's somethin' this baby is only too glad to do, and it looks like there'll be no hats broke or nothin' like that, when, in a misguided attempt to be friendly, the unfortunate taxi pilot stares at the Kid and remarks: "Say—d'ye know you're a dead ringer for Kid Roberts?"

Me and Ptomaine Joe laughs, but the Kid keeps a straight face.

"Kid Roberts?" he says. "Who is Kid Roberts?"

"The big yellah tramp which run out of a fight with the champeen!" sneers the chauffeur.

Silence!

The Kid's face burns a angry red and I step forward with violence in mind, when Ptomaine Joe with a howl of rage fixes everything up. The man mountain grabs the amazed taxi driver by the shoulders, lifts him up, shakes him like puss does little mousie and then coolly drops him into the lake! There was only a couple of feet of water at the point where he was standin', but, then, who wants to be throwed into even a couple of inches of it? Kid Roberts, me, and Désirée's father is petrified, but Désirée claps her hands and shrieks with delight. Then we all beat it, as some park strollers hove in sight.

Well, Kid Roberts sent me and Ptomaine Joe back to our hotel, whilst he took the charmin' visitors to their

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 hideout. Both the Kid and Désirée seems tickled silly to take up their friendship where they left off in St. Thérèse, but it's different here! I ain't afraid of nothin' the Kid will do; I'm busy worryin' about what Désirée, with that quick French temper of hers, is liable to pull when she gets herself convinced that the Kid's interest in her is simply brotherly and that he's savin' any heavier feelin's for his wife.

That afternoon when Kid Roberts come back whistlin' gayly from seein' the appetizin' Désirée home, I asked him point-blank what she's doin' in the bustlin' hamlet of New York.

"She came here to realize a ambition," says the Kid, carefully layin' out his shavin' weapons. "She wants to go on the stage or in the movies—preferably the latter."

"So she's cuckoo, hey?" I sneers.

Kid Roberts stops whistlin' and swings around, frownin' at me.

"That's out, Joe!" he says warnin'ly. "Miss Collet is a delightful girl, as unspoiled and naïve as a child. She has youth, beauty, and undeniable personality, and I don't blame her for rebelling against her living entombment in that little lumber town, barren of congenial companionships or amusements."

"Tomato sauce!" I says. "The kid's nutty over you, and you better check her out!"

"Don't be an idiot," grins Kid Roberts, busy with the lather.

That very night Kid Roberts panics me by throwin' a party for Désirée and her father. He takes 'em to

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 dinner and the Follies and afterward to Jazzbo's, a dancery. Me and Ptomaine Joe was along with 'em as ballast, so there was plenty shaperoans; but still and all I couldn't help feelin' that the Kid was monkeyin' with nitroglycerine by playin' around with this fiery little damsel from dear old St. Thérèse.

The featured comedian of our gay little party was Mons. Ptomaine Joe. This mug was a riot, no foolin'! I don't think he'd ever had a good time in his life before and in a hired dress suit he's all swelled up like a human yeast cake, upstagin' one and all as if he was Duke of Pneumonia. The leased evenin' wear fits this two-hundred-pound giggle like the skin fits under a turkey's chin—in fact, about the only thing Joseph could ever get to fit him ready-made would be a scarfpin. Kiddin' him on his weird appearance was a waste of witty remarks. Joe was more than well satisfied with himself, and when he's a sight to make a mummy guffaw, he looks me over carefully and then coolly remarks that people which lives in tin houses shouldn't throw can openers!

Well, Kid Roberts spends the next few days and quite a few pennies showin' Désirée and her father the sights of New York, and through a friend of his in the show business he likewise gets this charmer's name filed with a theatrical agency. Of course none of this makes Désirée sore at him, and me and poor broken-hearted Ptomaine Joe watch her gettin' further in love daily with feelin's of the greatest alarm. So far the only word the Kid has had from his wife was a cable so cold it could of been signed "Zero."

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Talk:Royal Naval Biography/Sotheron, Frank

Burial place of admiral frank sotheron.
Hello i am seeking the burial place of admiral frank sotheron mp .died 1839 london. Mick Limbert (talk) 02:29, 20 December 2023 (UTC)


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 About two weeks after Désirée hit Gotham she calls Kid Roberts up one day to tell him she's landed a job. She's all set with a vaudeville act, then playin' the Big Time theatres around New York. The act is no less than Jim Oliver's—the heavyweight champ carryin' a flock of bathin' beauties with him for what is known along Broadway as a "flash." Désirée is as happy and excited as a rookie copper making his first pinch, and she won't have it no other way, but that Kid Roberts has got to come to the theatre and watch her work. This is somethin' the Kid don't wish to do, on account of the heavyweight champion bein' with the act. After havin' refused to fight Oliver, Kid Roberts feels that if he shows up at the theatre where the champ is doin' his stuff it will simply look like a cheap attempt on his part to get publicity by annoyin' the title holder. He tries to stall Désirée and has no luck at all. What's the use of her bein' a actress if her hero won't come and see her act? She storms and pleads and fin'ly hangs up the phone, weepin'.

That done the trick, of course. Women has won victories with tears that a man couldn't win with a army at his back! Kid Roberts fusses and frets around the room for a couple of minutes and then calls up Désirée to tell her to dry her eyes, because he'll be at the theatre that night, come what may. As I had fondly hoped his refusal to go had got us shut of Désirée, I could of choked him!

At the Kid's request I went out and got three dutats for the show, because to job Ptomaine Joe out of seein' his loved one perform would of been nothin' short of

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 cruelty to animals. So the three musketeers is in seats well up in front that evenin' when the curtain rolls up on the champ's act. Except for the girls, it was old stuff. The gasp-producin' bathin' beauties strutted across the stage, one of 'em tore off a song, and then there was a few remarks dropped about "our fearless champeen." A curtain in back of 'em goes up, and there's a gym. Some settin'-up exercises by the girls, which goaled the old boys down in front and murdered the young ones too, and then a guy in a Tuxedo steps out and threatens to introduce "The undefeated champeen heavyweight boxer of the civilized world, laaadeees and gen-tell-men, I present for your approval this evenin', Jim Oliver!"

All this, of course, is applesauce to us. What we're interested in is Désirée Collet, the undefeated champion looker of the civilized world. Well, we seen her, and I must say she was somethin' to look at, don't think she wasn't! This bathin'-girl costume, or what they was of it, was duck soup for Désirée, which had more curves than a scenic railway and was simply a opium fiend's dream as she scampered about that stage. I'm fairly girl-proof myself, but Désirée, give me a passin' thrill, and what she done to Ptomaine Joe was pitiful. This unfortunate clown just sit there on the edge of his seat with his mouth and eyes as wide open as a First Avenue crap game, and you could of cut off his leg and he'd never of knew a thing about it till he read it in the paper. If he was crazy about Désirée, before, why, he's triple insane about her now!

The effect on Kid Roberts of Désirée au naturel,

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 though, was altogether different. The Kid's classical forehead is drawn together in a frown which ridges it like a washboard, and every now and then he shoots a angry glare at some bozo which is gettin' a close-up of the girl through opera glasses. In fact, his plain air of dislike for matters gets me puzzled.

"What's the big idea, Kid?" I whisper, nudgin' him. "Don't the young lady knock you over as a actress?"

"The costume that child has on is disgraceful!" says the Kid angrily. "Look at these leering beasts about us smacking their lips!"

"Well, she's a tasty number," I says soothingly. "If"

"If I'd had the faintest idea that Désirée would be engaged for any such spectacle as this," goes on Kid Roberts, ignorin' me, "I would never have had her name filed with that infernal theatrical agency. I feel the responsibility is mine, and I shall certainly endeavor to place her elsewhere. That abbreviated costume is so incongruous with her natural innocent naïveté—it is as if a baby's picture was on the label of a whisky bottle!"

Well, as long as we're there we settle back to watch the champion punch the bag, skip rope, box a couple of rounds with a sparrin' partner, and go through other routine trainin' exercises. The heavyweight king was in great shape, there was no gettin' away from that—looked to me to be no more than a month away from his best fighting form.

We're just about to leave, when there comes a startlin' interruption. Oliver's press agent has found out

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 that Kid Roberts is in the audience, and he sees a great chance to get his man on the front page of the newspapers at our expense. This publicity trapper was a swift thinker, I'll say that for him! At a signal from behind the stage the champion suddenly stops workin' and out steps the announcer again. A attack of human curiosity makes us wait to see what it's all about. We should of kept on goin' out!

"Laaadeees and gent-tell-men!" bawls the announcer, raisin' his hand. "They has been some loose talk in the newspapers that Jim Oliver, undefeated heavyweight champeen of the civilized world, was tickled silly when Kid Roberts ab-so-lutely refused to box him for the title. Well, Kid Roberts is in the audience here this evenin' and if he's got the gu—eh—nerve, the champeen will box him right here and now!"

For a instant you could cut the silence with a knife, and then the theatre is in a uproar, cheers and hisses fillin' the air whilst everybody in the place tries to find out where we're sittin'. Nobody knows better than the champ's press agent that there ain't a chance in the wide, wide world of any bout between Kid Roberts and Jim Oliver comin' off on that stage—there's just two billion things to stop it—but many of the yokels out in front is bound to think the challenge is level, and I realize that the Kid's standin' rests on what he does in the next two minutes. I gaze around wildly, lookin' past the coldly smilin' and unruffled Kid Roberts at the excited faces turned towards us—some sneerin', some admirin'. In the mass I recognize a old pal, grim-faced

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 Tim Wise, police captain of the district the theatre's in, and I immediately get a rush of brains to the head. First I tell Kid Roberts to start right for the stage, but take his time in gettin' there. The Kid looks puzzled, but, readin' my face, he does what I tell him, like usual.

The audience cheers wildly as Kid Roberts strolls down the aisle as cool as the Labrador coast, lookin' more like a movie star than a ex-champion heavyweight in his form-fittin' dress suit. I push my way over to Tim Wise and whisper frantically in his ear. Well, a word to this Wise was sufficient! He jumps up and hollers that if any box fight is attempted on that stage he will take great pleasure in pinchin' the house manager and both principals, as the theatre is not equipped with a boxin' license. across the footlights, Kid Roberts halts, gazes at the scowlin' champion and then shakes his head sorrowfully, like he feels that stoppin' the fracas was a tough break for him. As he starts back to his seat the thrilled audience shakes the roof with applause.

So this stunt, framed by the champ's press agent to make a burn out of Kid Roberts in public, has actually rebounded to my leather pusher's credit. If I'd of sit up all night I couldn't of personally doped a better way to bring Kid Roberts before a mixed metropolitan audience—ready to fight, handsome, polished, and dressed like a fashion plate. You can imagine how this baby stood out on the stage beside the glowerin' cave man which held the title. I bet the weaker sex present had sore hands for a month and the next

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Rh amiable. He had now placed the whole direction of public affairs in Tō no Chūjō’s hands; the experiment was working well, and such was Genji’s relief at escaping from the burden which had so long oppressed him that he found it impossible to be serious for a minute. To joke with Ukon, a very matter-of-fact old lady, was found by most people to be out of the question. But Genji had a peculiar gift of sympathy, which enabled him to penetrate the most obstinate gloom, the most imperturbable gravity.

‘Tell me about the interesting person whom you have discovered,’ he went on. ‘I believe it is another of your holy men. You have brought him back here, and now I am to let him pray for me. Have I not guessed right?’ ‘No, indeed,’ Ukon answered indignantly; ‘I should never dream of doing such a thing!’ And then, lowering her voice: ‘I have become acquainted with the daughter of a lady whom I served long ago…. The mother came to a miserable end…. You will know of whom it is I am speaking.’ ‘Yes,’ said Genji … ‘I know well enough, and your news is indeed very different from anything I had imagined. Where has the child been during all these years?’ ‘In the country,’ answered Ukon vaguely; this did not seem a good moment for going into the whole story. ‘Some of the old servants took charge of the child,’ she continued, ‘and are still in her service now that she has grown up. They of course knew nothing of the circumstances under which their former mistress… It was torture to speak of it; but I managed at last to tell them….’ ‘I think we had better talk about this some other time,’ Genji interrupted, drawing Ukon aside. But Murasaki had overheard them. ‘Pray do not trouble about me,’ she said with a yawn. ‘I am half-asleep in any case; and if it is something I am not to hear…’ So saying she covered her ears with her sleeves.

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 mornin' the newspapers give us more than the best of the thing.

So that was that!

How the so ever, let us finish up the events of that night. We meet the peace-destroyin' Désirée back stage after the show and she's a mass of smiles.

"Whal, 'ow you like Désirée to-night, my fren's?" she wants to know.

"O. K.," I says. "You got past nicely."

"Kid," says Ptomaine Joe, dangerously ill of love, "you was a wow, I'll tell the pink-eyed world!"

"You were charming, Désirée," says Kid Roberts quietly, "but, frankly, I do not like your costume."

The bright smile leaves Désirée's beautiful face like magic and its place is taken immediately by a frown.

"Vraiment!" she snaps. "Ce n'est pas gentil ce que vous dites-la! But what ees ze mattaire wiz my costume?"

"It—it is too abbreviated," says Kid Roberts flushin' a bit, but evidently determined to go through with matters now that he's begun. "It is not only merely abbreviated, Désirée, it is—it is—well; you are too young and unspoiled to be exposed to the supersophisticated atmosphere of that act. I am sincerely sorry that I was the means of your getting that engagement and—"

"Pardon, monsieur!" interrupts Désirée, with a edd light in her sparklin' eyes. "Why 'ave you thees alarm for me? What you care what I do? What ees your in-ter-est in Désirée?"

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 That was puttin' it up to the Kid cold turkey, but it didn't seem to bother him.

"Merely friendship, Désirée," he says smilin'ly. "I want to protect you while we are both in New York—as much as I consistently can."

From the way the expression changed on Désirée's face, a baby could see that she had looked for a much warmer statement than that. Désirée had been fairly raised on guys makin' desperate love to her—she's prob'ly been goalin' the sturdy menfolk since she throwed away her rattle for a powder puff—and here was a fellow she thought was a clam's earrings, yet he don't give her a tumble. Believe me, boys and girls. Désirée was plenty steamed!

"So you onlee weesh to be my fren'?" she says, curlin' her cherry lip. "Whal, don' bozzer yourself wiz me. I do not 'ave use for one private gendarme. I 'ave mon père for zat!"

"As you wish," bows the Kid calmly.

"Why you no fight zis Monsieur Olivaire?" persists Désirée, determined to start somethin'. "You are afraid for him?"

Kid Roberts flushes and his eyes glint, but he keeps his head. "I can see our little actress is developing temperament," he smiles. "You are evidently in a quarrelsome mood this evening, Désirée, so perhaps we had better postpone this discussion indefinitely. I do not wish to air my views on Jim Oliver and—"

"He has ask me to go out wiz him," butts in Désirée. "He pick me out from all ze girls in ze act—what of zat?"

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 The Kid quits smilin' and looks very serious. "If you should go out with Jim Oliver, Désirée, be sure his invitation includes your father," he says.

"I do as please me!" says Désirée, "Au revoir, monsieur!"

With that she flounces away, leavin' us flat. I come near givin' three rousin' cheers, because I think that's where Miss Désirée Collet exits from the life and adventures of Kid Roberts. Nothin' of the kind!

The remarkable young woman's next imitation is to phone the Kid a few days later with the information that she has quit the drama. This pleases Kid Roberts, but he wants to know just what made up Désirée's mind for her, Désirée don't mind tellin' him in the least. She claims she went out with Jim Oliver and the heavyweight champ insulted her to such a extent that she felt she could no longer stay with his act. Kid Roberts tells me all this with blazin' eyes and squared jaw, but I think Désirée's scenario is the bunk—more than likely another plant of some kind engineered by Oliver's press agent. The high-strung Kid is already boilin' over, and my views on the subject get him red-headed. He calls me a incurable sinnick, whatever that is, says I don't believe nobody or nothin' is level and that I must think the Revolutionary War was a frame-up. Whilst he's bawlin' me out he's gettin' into his hat and coat, and with mild curiosity I ask him where he's bound for.

"I am to blame for Désirée ever coming in contact with a beast like Oliver," he says bitterly. "And I'm

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 going up to his hotel to thrash him within an inch of his life!"

Sweet Mamma—he talks about thrashin' the heavyweight champ like you'd talk about thrashin' wheat!

"You're dizzy!" I says. "Quit actin' like a schoolboy and be yourself. If—"

A slam of the door cuts me off and likewise leaves me alone!

Well, of course, there's nothin' left for me to do but bound after him, and I'm on his heels when he pulls up outside Oliver's suite at the Hotel Ephant. A ferocious drummin' on the door makes it open with Red Young, the champ's manager, at the knob, whilst I'm still frantically tryin' to cool the Kid off.

If Red didn't look surprised when he seen that me and Kid Roberts was his callers, then neither did Balboa look surprised when he seen the Pacific.

"Hey, you guys wants to be more careful," says Red in alarm, after his first amazed gasp, "if you want to do business with me and the champ, we got to be under cover, otherwise when we fight you the yokels will be hep that it's framed!"

"There'll be no frame about this fight!" says Kid Roberts grimly, shovin' Red aside. "Where's Oliver?"

Then the fun began!

The heavyweight champ come saunterin' in from another room where he'd been entertainin' the usual mob of yes men which hangs around a champion of—anything. Oliver looked astounded when he seen Kid Roberts glarin' at him, but he looked even more astounded when the Kid broke away from me and shot a

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 straight left to his mouth, cuttin' it. With a oath, Oliver steadied himself and come back with a hard right to the head as the boys from the other room piled in. It took five minutes of the most earnest endeavor and the full ship's company to tear them two strugglin' giants apart, and in answer to a thousand hysterical questions Kid Roberts panted out what it was all about. When he accused Oliver of insultin' Désirée, the champ stared at him in such dumfounded astonishment that I believed him on the spot when he said he'd never spoke two words to the girl and couldn't even remember who she was. But it was different with the ragin' Kid Roberts. He waves Oliver's denials away and says he'll never be satisfied till he's pounded him to a jelly, in the ring or out of it! Red Young, which couldn't get rid of the idea that the Kid was a set-up for his champ, says that's a good thought and grins meanin'ly at some highly delighted sport writers which was among Oliver's guests. Then Red asks me when we'll be ready to sign articles. I says "Never!" and Kid Roberts shoves me away and says: "Right now!"

Two days later, in spite of the fact that I barked and meowed myself hoarse against it, Kid Roberts signed to fight Jim Oliver fifteen frames to a decision at Madison Square Garden. The newspapers described it as "For the world's heavyweight championship and—a girl!"

Applesauce!

In response to Ptomaine Joe's pitiful pleadin's, I got him the semifinal—ten rounds with a banana entitled One-Jab McGoldberg—for the boxin' cook's first ap-

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 pearance in a ring. Whilst arrangin' this little incident, I mingle around with the sharpshooters and wise guys of Times Square and they tip me that there's no more chance of Kid Roberts winnin' the title than there is of me gettin' elected president of Harvard by acclamation. The champion is a three to one favorite and the "wise money" is on him. Try to take him, that's all! Naturally, this bothers me no little, but I says nothin' to the Kid, as his job is to do the fightin' and mine to do the worryin'. Kid Roberts is puttin' everything he's got into his trainin', makin' his weary sparrin' partners sick of the game, and I never seen him more cheerful. He's cabled his wife just how important the comin' mill is and what it may mean to them both, askin' for a word of cheer in return. Désirée has laid low since she told the Kid that Oliver had got out of line with her, a thing for which I am more than thankful.

Well, the big night fin'ly rolls around and the old Garden is jammed till the walls is bulgin' out as early as seven o'clock. Hundreds of wild-eyed fight bugs is turned away, and most of 'em hang around outside to annoy the coppers and wait for the returns of the big battle. The preliminaries was just excitin' enough to keep the packed house on edge and then out comes Ptomaine Joe in the, his first professional fight. This scuffle was one for the book!

Ptomaine Joe's unreasonable size would of got him a laugh if he hadn't done nothin' at all, but when he falls through the ropes tryin' to enter the ring and pulls a few other bones which shows he don't know

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 what it's all about, the 15,000 humorists in the crowd of 15,000 trains their heavy artillery on him. Between the sarcastical wise cracks of the customers, the blindin', unfamiliar lights over the ring, the referee's gruff instructions, and this and that, poor Joseph was just a bundle of drawn nerves. He was rarin' to go and couldn't go for rarin'! One-Jab McGoldberg, no dwarf himself, looked a bit pale when he gazed on the human mountain he was asked to knock off and he talked to his troubled handlers very seriously. Just before the gong Ptomaine Joe's nerves got the best of him.

"Hold everything!" he suddenly howls to the crowd in a high-pitched voice; "I'm gonna lay this tomato like a rug!"

The mob is still graspin' its sides when the bell rings and Ptomaine Joe bounds out of his corner like a piece of india-rubber. His eyes is shut tight and his long arms is swingin' like windmills. The panic-stricken referee takes one wild look and then starts to flee for his life, but he was a bit too slow. The first punch Josephus landed caught the referee under the ear and knocked him out of the ring into the press seats! The crowd goes crazy, and One-Jab McGoldberg, the only guy in the joint not hysterical, creeps up behind Ptomaine Joe, measures the back of his head, hauls off and knocks him as stiff as a waiter's collar. The dazed and enraged referee sticks his head under the bottom rope and counts Joey out from there. Then he picks up a chair and was goin' to brain the prostrate chef, but cooler heads prevail.

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 But Ptomaine Joe ain't all done yet. He quickly revived under scientific treatment, as you couldn't kill him with arsenic. When he comes back as one of Kid Roberts's handlers in the main bout, the crowd pegs him and starts editorial comments on his past, present, and future. Their stuff was funny, but not to Joe! He stood the razzin' for about three minutes, then with a yell he picks up the water bucket and hurls it over the ropes at his tormentors. The next instant ninety-six coppers gives Joseph the air. Thus endeth the first lesson!

Well, there was nothin' but hearty laughs connected with the semifinal, but it was all different with the main bout, and don't think it wasn't. Before Kid Roberts and the champion had been steppin' along two minutes I found out what the wisenheimers meant by tellin' me the Kid couldn't win, and I seen we was in for a proper jobbin'!

From the very first tap of the gong Kid Roberts was fightin' two men—Jim Oliver and the referee. This fair-minded official kept up a steady snarlin' monologue in the pantin' Kid's ear:

"Hey, keep 'em up, 'at last one landed on his knee! Why don't you break when I tell you—what are you, a wrestler? Stop 'at buttin' or I'll disqualify you, get me? Go on, fight, or I'll stop it! Don't try to heel him, I'm watchin' you!" etc., etc., till he had the Kid's nerves and fin'ly half the crowd on edge.

Why, I tell you it was the rawest thing I ever seen in a ring and what I ain't seen just never was, that's all! A cleaner fighter than Kid Roberts has yet to rub

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182 ‘Is she as handsome as her mother?’ Genji then asked. ‘I did not at all expect that she would be,’ answered Ukon. ‘But I must say that I have seldom seen…’ ‘I am sure she is pretty,’ he said. ‘I wonder whether you mean anything more than that. Compared with my Lady…?’ and he nodded towards Lady Murasaki. ‘No, indeed,’ said Ukon hastily; ‘that would be going too far….’ ‘Come,’ he said; ‘it would not be going much farther than you go yourself. I can see that by your face. For my part, I must own to the usual vanity of parents. I hope that I shall be able to see in her some slight resemblance to myself.’ He said this because he intended to pass off the girl as his own child, and was afraid that part of the conversation had been overheard. Having learnt so much, he could not resist the temptation to hear the whole of Ukon’s story, and presently he took her into a side-room, where they could discuss the matter undisturbed. ‘Well,’ he said, when Ukon had satisfied his curiosity, ‘I have quite made up my mind what to do with her. She shall come and live with me here. For years past I have constantly wondered what had become of her, and dreaded lest she should be throwing away her youth in some dismal, unfrequented place. I am delighted indeed that you have re-discovered her. My only misgiving concerns her father. I suppose I ought at once to tell him of her return. But I do not quite see how to set about it; for he knows nothing of my connection with Lady Yūgao, and I have never been able to see that there was any use in enlightening him. He has already more children than he knows what to do with, and the arrival in his house of a fully-grown girl, whom he has not set eyes on since she was a child-in-arms, would merely be a nuisance to him. It seems much simpler that I, who have so small a family, should take charge of her; and it is easy enough to give out that she is a daughter

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