In days of old when knights was bold no nobby young blood's wardrobe was complete without a first-class motto. The Duke of Dorset's motto covers this episode in the life of Kid Roberts like charity covers sin. It was: "Either never attempt or else accomplish!" That's a good thought, what? In other words: "Don't start nothin' you can't finish!" If you don't think that's good advice, ask Don Miguel Espinosa—that's if that guy's snapped out of it yet. The last I seen him, he was sprawled on the floor of the Kid's dressin' room at the Jersey City A. C. as cold as a polar bear's nose!
After Kid Roberts smacked Jim Oliver, the heavyweight champ, as stiff as a top sergeant's back, but was robbed of the title by that yegg referee which called the punch foul, I had made up my mind to take my athlete around the sticks, fightin' him against second- and third-raters till he'd knocked off enough of these boloneys to demand a quarrel with the champion again. Désirée Collet had skipped back to St. Thérèse and her departure tickled everybody silly, with the slight exception of Ptomaine Joe.
Whilst I'm stallin' around New York linin' up a busy campaign through the Middle West and tryin' to keep the railroad leaps down so's we can show a profit at the end of the jaunt, Jim Oliver, stung by the way the sport writers is pannin' him daily on his showin' with Kid Roberts, takes on Battlin' Miller for fifteen frames at the Garden. Well, Battlin' Miller took a proper pastin' for ten rounds, but he was tougher than chilled steel and Mr. Champ fought himself out tryin' to stop him. From then on the Battler cuffed the arm-weary and wind-blown title holder all over the ring, floorin' him in the last round for a short count. The judges handed Oliver the decision, drivin' the crowd crazy, but most of the newspapers took the angle that Battlin' Miller's work in the last five innin's had offset the champion's early lead and they give the Battler a draw. That little incident boosted Miller's wages from about $2,500 a fight to about $2,500 a round.
The sport writers then call for a brawl between Kid Roberts and Battlin' Miller, the winner to get another shot at Jim Oliver's crown, as both the boys had shown in their fights with him that they had a right to think they could take him. "Honest John" Keller, at that time promoter of the Jersey City A. C., signs Miller and then Johnny takes a runnin' jump to New York and propositions me. He offers us $15,000 flat for twelve rounds with the Battler at his club. I counter with a offer to let Kid Roberts display his wares for a guarantee of fifteen grand with the privilege of takin' 33 1-3 per cent of the gross, knowin' that Roberts and Miller would draw like a poultice. Johnny snapped me up so swift that I'm sorry to this day I didn't also insist on him takin' out a $100,000 life-insurance policy and makin' me the beneficiary!
Like all fight clubs, the Jersey City A. C.'s got a local drawin' card—a boy the matchmaker builds up with the fans by sendin' him against a set-up each week till he's got a string of K. O.'s after his name as long as a giraffe's neck. In the caseof "Honest John" Keller's abattoir, the prima donna was a inexpensive heavy entitled Tornado Tate, and Johnny wanted his house packer on the bill with Roberts and Miller so's to insure a crowd which would jam his club to the mortgages. Well, Ptomaine Joe's workin' out every day with the Kid, and this tomato is rarin' to go again, in spite of the fact that he was a total loss in his first professional fight. So when Johnny Keller says he's only got one grand to squander on the semiwindup to the big fight and he's got to give Monsieur Tornado Tate $750 of that, I says I'll toss Ptomaine Joe into the ring with his man eater for the other $250. As Cain remarked to Abel, it's all fun!
In the meanwhile the society pages of the newspapers has been full of the Kid's wife's photos and her activities in this French slab, Deauville. These newspaper stories from across the boundin' main was gettin' my box fighter thoughtful, and don't think they wasn't. The particular item which ruined the Kid was a radio claimin' that a Spanish omelet by the high-soundin' title of Don Miguel Espinosa was payin' constant attention to Dolores. A dozen times a day Kid Roberts wanted to let fightin' run for the end book, pack a suit case and beat it for Europe to give Don Miguel the last lesson first and incidentally have a show-down with his wife. But I managed to cool him off, tellin' him that kind of antics would only make matters worse. My advice was to wait till Dolores come back to America and then stage the big conference. Well, Dolores come back all right and Don Miguel blew over on the next boat!
Kid Roberts was what is known as a one-woman man and he still thinks Dolores is the only female in the wide, wide world in spite of the fact that she canceled him when he went back to the ring to earn his livin'. The Kid's broodin' over his family troubles was keepin' him awake at nights and causin' him to neglect his trainin' for Battlin' Miller to such a extent that I begin to do a piece of worryin' myself. From the way Kid Roberts was performin' in the gym, he didn't look able to punch his way out of a paper bag and this Battlin' Miller from all accounts was nobody's fool. So I decide to pay Dolores a visit myself and see if I can't fix things up between her and the Kid before they get to the unfixable stage.
I piled into a taxi and got whisked out to the sultan's palace on Fifth Avenue where Dolores was stayin' with her father, Senator Brewster. The old boy had been a strong booster for Kid Roberts from the time he met him. So I figured on gettin' to him first and then havin' him come in with me when I started to work on Dolores.
As luck would have it, the Senator was in a place called elsewhere when I called and the haughty butler. after lookin' me over like I was a immigrant's trunk and he was a customs inspector, was goin' to give me the gate without further ado. I was seriously considerin' the proposition of smackin' him down, when Dolores happened to pass and hear my voice.
"Why, of all people!" she says. "Hello, Joe—I'm so glad to see you!" Then she turns to the butler, which knows he's batted out of turn and looks it. "Peters, show Mister Murphy to the drawin' room," she says. "I'll join you in a moment, Joe. Make yourself comfortable."
Now that he sees I mean somethin', this butler buttles his head off for my benefit.
Whilst I'm waitin' for Dolores, I hear her at the telephone in the hall. It seems she's givin' orders to her political lieutenants, and from her line of chatter you'd think she was a Tammany Hall boss. Short, crisp, man talk and right to the point.
Waitin' for her to hang up the phone and come into the drawin' room, I'm nervously rehearsin' in my mind the speech I'm goin' to make to her in behalf of Kid Roberts—her husband and our mutual friend. Tryin' to pour oil on the troubled waters of matrimony is what you call a delicate task and as a rule the best you can look for is the worst of it. In the middle of my thoughts along these lines, in comes Dolores, caparisoned in a negligée which would of drove Nero cuckoo.
"Dolor—eh—Mrs. Halliday," I begins. "You"
"Not Mrs. Halliday, Joe," smiles Dolores, takin' a seat opposite me. "Miss Brewster!"
That shot me out of my chair! "What?" I gasps. "Have you got unmarried to Kid Roberts?"
Dolores throws a blush which would of made a rose wince with envy and then she frowns.
"Joe, I must ask you not to repeat that vulgar sobriquet that Kane has adopted as a mask for his beastly pugilistic activities," she tells me. "I loathe it! Fancy—Mrs. Kid Roberts! Oh!"
"But there ain't nobody calls you Mrs. Kid Roberts," I says, in what I hope is a soothin' voice. "Everybody knows you as Mrs. Kane Halliday and there's a name with some stuff to it!"
"Well, they will know me hereafter as Dolores Brewster!" she snaps, comin' back and sittin' down again. "Possibly as Senator Brewster!"
"I—eh—well, for one thing," I says, tryin' to lighten the atmosphere, "it would look kind of funny to see in the paper, 'Dolores Brewster and Kane Halliday have taken a suite at the Ritz,' wouldn't it?"
Dolores laughs, but quickly gets serious again.
"You will never see anything like that, Joe," she says. "Kane and I have come to the parting of the ways. Why, I'm virtually an unmarried woman now, am I not? Do I ever see my husband?"
"Well," I says, "that ain't altogether the Kid's—eh—Kane's fault, now is it? I bet if you hadn't blowed to Europe he'd of been here long ago and everything would of been jake. Why, the boy's simply dyin' on his feet from the dread disease of love. He always was maniacal about you, is now and always will be!"
"He has rather peculiar methods of showing his affection, then," remarks Dolores, but she looks pleased. "What about this Collet woman?"
"Newspaper bunk!" I snorts. "I'll give you the low-down about that on my word of honor, which like Astor has never been broke! Désirée Collet was just a nutty kid. She comes to New York with her feeble old father, and as they didn't even know a traffic cop between 'em, Kane just played big brother for her, that's all, You're a woman—well, do you think if Kane had fell for Désirée she'd of got so sore at him that she wanted him trimmed by the heavyweight champ? Take it from me, Mrs. Brewster-Halliday, Kane never give her a tumble. You can't believe nothin' you see in the papers these days. Why, for instance, me and Kane has been readin' for weeks about some Spanish sheik by the name of Don Miguel Espinosa followin' you all over Europe! Of course, I know that's the"
I stop short, because Dolores has jumped up, her face blood red.
"Kane believes that?" she wants to know.
"Why, I should say not!" I says quickly. "But, at the same time, thinkin' about it ain't doin' him a bit of good!"
"Does he know you were coming to see me?" is the next question, after a pause.
"No," I tell her promptly. "He'd murder me if he thought I was tryin' to be a Mr. Fix-It in his private affairs. Maybe you think I'm out of line, too, comin' here without no invitation. I'd do anything for either of you and I hate to see Kane unhappy. If I'm out of order, I'm sorry and"
But Dolores cuts me off with a quick little pat on the arm, tellin' me she understands perfectly and I got nothin' to apologize for, as my valuable friendship is somethin' she never intends to lose. We talked about this and we talked about that, with me easin' the name of Kid Roberts into the conversation at every chance, and as I got up to shove off it looked like one visit from the Kid himself would bring them together forever and a day. So, all in all, I felt pretty well pleased with my day's work.
How the so ever, as I go out the door I run into somethin' in the hall which makes matters more complicated. The somethin' is no less than Mr. Don Miguel Espinosa, and when I heard friend butler repeat his monicker I stood still and took a good long look at this foreign banana. He's got on a swallow-tail coat, uncuffed pants, white spats, some flowers in his buttonhole and some more in his hand, packs a gold-headed cane, a watch crystal over one eye, and a silk hat on his bean. A high hat in the daytime!
I give this big clown a stare which seems to panic him for a instant, because he kind of shivered before lookin' me up and down with his little beady eyes like I'm somethin' puss dragged in on a wild and stormy night. This steams me up, and I would of knocked him as cold as Nanook's nose only I didn't want to start nothin' in Dolores's house. So I let him live, figurin' I couldn't possibly be unlucky enough not to get another chance at this mug—and I wasn't!
Well, when I got back to the inn where me and Kid Roberts is parkin' ourselves, I'm so highly pleased with the conference I had with Dolores that I boldly hauled off and told the Kid all about it. I didn't mention nothin' about this Don Miguel callin' whilst I was there, because my boy friend got so burnt up over me interferin' in his domestical affairs that discussin' this subject took up the worst part of a crowded hour and left us both hoarse. In fact, for a while it looked like the bust up of one of the greatest two-man combinations since Haig & Haig. How the so ever, when the smoke of battle died down, me and Kid Roberts is still playmates as of yore. The Kid recognizes that I had simply acted as a old friend of both combatants in tryin' to bring him and his bride together, and all is forgiven. I then drove home the point that, in my opinion, Dolores was now in the mood where if he'd shoot right up to her and do his stuff he could square things with ridiculous ease. This Don Miguel Espinosa had me bothered and I wanted Kid Roberts to come to bat with Dolores before that Spanish cake eater made himself solid with her.
At first the Kid couldn't see my angle with a spyglass, and he kind of irritably makes the suggestion that we drop the subject for a while—say till 1969. When I went out to file some bushwah with the sport writers he was pacin' the room like a panther in the zoo, and he was just as tame. But I found a note from him at the desk when I come back: "May not return for dinner. I've decided to accept your suggestion, Joe, and have gone to visit Dolores!"
Kid Roberts blew in about nine o'clock that night with his jaw set hard and his hat pulled down, till it almost covered his flashin', steel-gray eyes. He slammed the door after him so hard that two pictures, the phone book, and a clock fell off the wall with a crash!
"What's the big idea, Kid?" I says in surprise. "Didn't you see Dolores?"
He swung around on me like a flash. "Under the circumstances, Joe, your curiosity is pardonable," he tells me. "But in the future the subject of Dolores is taboo—let that be understood!"
"O. K.," I says. "And now that we got that all settled, did you see her?"
Kid Roberts glares at me for a minute and then he surrenders, "Yes—I saw Dolores," he says, curlin' his lip. "For various reasons, I didn't inform Dolores of my intended visit, and when I arrived at her father's house I found she was engaged with—eh—with another caller. I wouldn't permit the butler to announce me, as I intended to give Dolores what I hoped would be a pleasant surprise. Well, she accompanied her departing visitor to the reception hall, and there I confronted them. Instead of appearing glad to see me, Dolores was frankly embarrassed—yes, by Heaven, disconcerted at seeing me there! Recovering herself she intraduced her visitor. Joe, who do you think it was?"
"I know who it was," I says, without thinkin', "Don Miguel Espinosa!"
The Kid grabs my arm in a iron grip and swings me around, starin' at me with glitterin' eyes. "How did you guess that?" he demanded. "Or, was it merely a guess?"
"That's all," I says. "Didn't we both read in the paper that this jobbie had arrived here only a few boat lengths behind your wife?"
I didn't say nothin' about the Don bein' on hand when I called on Dolores. The Kid had already apparently seen enough to get him red-headed, and why should I throw gasoline on a fire?
It seems Kid Roberts and Don Miguel looked each other over with all the friendliness of a couple of strange bull-dogs and, not likin' what he read in the Kid's blazin' eye, this toreador scurried away. But the damage had been done! The hot-tempered Kid Roberts forgot he had come to make up with his wife and let go with both barrels. He led with Don Miguel and landed hard, but Dolores come right back with Désirée Collet and shook the Kid up considerably. Then Kid Roberts claimed a wife's place was in the home and not in politics and Dolores says when she wants a opinion she'll go to the Supreme Court; likewise, if he thinks more of the prize ring than he does of his weddin' ring he can close the door from the outside.
It was a fast draw.
After he cools off a bit Kid Roberts tells me he's satisfied this Don Miguel is a false alarm and simply tryin' to gyp Dolores out of some heavy jack. But unless he gets somethin' on him, why, beatin' this bird up would only make matters worse between him and his wife and might even rebound in the Don's favor. So he decides to lay low for the time bein', trustin' to luck that this gil from Madrid will speak out of turn with Dolores or do somethin' which will show him up in his true colors. Personally he don't ever expect to lay a eye on the Don again and neither do I, for that matter, but we did—sweet spirits of niter, I'll say we did!
At the Hotel Escope, the trap where me and Kid Roberts is parked in New York, there's a telephone girl by the name of Beatrice Brown and she's a eye filler of the first water— Oh, a darb! She's made to order for the Follies, with the movies a set-up for her when she gets tired of the sport there. As usual, Ptomaine Joe can't sleep from thinkin' about her. Her switchboard just groaned under the load of confectionery and flowers which he loaded it with daily and all Bee did was to split amongst the other girls these costly sacrifices which Ptomaine laid at her altar and give Ptomaine a flock of wrong numbers in return.
But there was one member of our party which knocked Beatrice's heart for a trip, and that was Kid Roberts. Bee did eye work and all-around vampin' on the handsome Kid that had poor Ptomaine and the other males in the lobby gnashin' their teeth, but the Kid kept his head with her, bein' used to this kind of notice from the adjacent sex. In the worried state of mind the boy was in then, Beatrice, with her wise-crackin' chatter and open admiration, was just about the kind of bracer Kid Roberts needed. All pretty women is that way—a heady wine. Sip with caution and they're a tonic, but begin gulpin' down and—good night!
Well, to make a long story longer, I organize a party to go to the ball game one day to break up the monotony of the Kid's trainin' for the Battlin' Miller bout. Ptomaine Joe invites Beatrice Brown, which didn't want to have him around and didn't want to go till she heard Kid Roberts was goin', and then it was a case of try and keep her away! Our entrance to the ball park creates somethin' of a stir as the Kid is recognized and the news photographers aim their cameras at us, all of which tickles Beatrice silly. The way she snuggled up to Kid Roberts so's to be in the picture with him drove the love-lorn Ptomaine wild. Then one of the ball club officials sees us and makes a large fuss over Kid Roberts. He won't have it no other way but that the ex-heavyweight champion and party has a box on the house. As we crowd into it, Kid Roberts gasps and falls back against me, treadin' all over my feet. Followin' his glance, I do a piece of gaspin' myself, for amongst the party in the next box is no less than Dolores and Don Miguel Espinosa.
Swelterin' canine!
Lookin' around, they seen us right away, and Dolores turns a flamin' red, matchin' the crimson of the Kid's face. Kid Roberts merely bows coldly and sits down, apparently as unconcerned as if the adjoinin' box was vacant. Dolores immediately begins to read her program like she's determined to learn it by heart. Don Miguel failed to return the Kid's bow, but to our great surprise he tips his silk hat to Beatrice Brown, which give him a kind of scornful smile and a chilly "Good afternoon!"
"Where did you meet that guy?" I ask Beatrice, whilst Ptomaine and Kid Roberts is arrangin' the details of a bet on the game.
"Who—that John with the cab driver's hat in the next box?" says Beatrice airly. "Why, he stores himself at the hotel. He's a Cuban or one of them dizzy foreigners, and"
"Don Miguel is a guest at our hotel?" butts in Kid Roberts in a low voice, overhearin' this tidbit.
"Don which?" says Beatrice surprised. "If you mean that egg next to us, he's down on the books as Juan Ybarra, and if he's a Don he's been holdin' out on me! He's been tryin' to make me for the past three weeks, but he's just a bum guesser, that's all. I don't go out with no fellows which looks you over like he does. I pick my boy friends!"
The Kid is now double convinced that this Spaniard is all wrong, and he tells Beatrice to find out all she can about him. Tickled to be of any use, Beatrice promises to have the low-down on this baby within a few days. Just leave matters to her, she says, and she'll make Mr. Don talk himself into all the grief in the world. That's somethin' she can do to any masculine, adds Bee, and after a long look at her I would of laid a hundred to one that she was statin' nothin' but facts!
About the middle of this ball game there was a excitin' little coincident come to pass which must of made Dolores very thoughtful.
A ball is batted plumb into the box where Dolores and the Don is sittin', and in the scramble to get it the Don is lucky. He takes out a fountain pen, writes somethin' on the cover of the ball, and presents it to Dolores with a bow and a flourish. Watchin' out of the corner of his eye, Kid Roberts grits his teeth. A few minutes afterward a special copper comes up lookin' for the lost ball, like they always do. Ptomaine Joe, which has been mutterin' and glarin' at Don Miguel ever since the fair Beatrice cracked about the Don pesterin' her, grabs the cop's sleeve and points out the Don as the shoplifter. Mr. Cop taps him on the shoulder, and when the man from Spain turns around angrily he looks right into a Tenth Avenue scowl and a request for the baseball.
"Go away, creature!" frowns Don Miguel, excitedly brandishin' his shoulders. "I have not your property. I am a nobleman, and this is an insult! I will sue"
The copper grabs the Don by the collar, and they commence strugglin' hithers and you all over the box, whilst everybody within eyesight forgets about the ball game to watch what might be a two-handed scrap. Kid Roberts, at first enjoyin' the thing, sees that Dolores is on the brink of death from mortification, and he steps right into the breach.
"Just a moment, officer," says the Kid, layin' a hand on the copper's shoulder. Friend Cop swings around ready to take on all corners, but the second he lamps the Kid his face brightens, and he shoves out his hand with a smile.
"Hello, Kid!" he says, swellin' all up like a pump and beamin' on everybody as Kid Roberts shakes with him. "Gee—you look like a million!"
Instantly the innocent bystanders cuddles closer for a flash at the famous ex-champion which has been makin' such a marvelous comeback. The ball game is now runnin' for Sweeney. On all the sides you can hear whispers; "That's Kid Roberts!" "Say, the Kid looks great, don't he?" "Roberts'll knock this Battlin' Miller for a row of Zulu jelly molds." The grinnin' copper then says if the Don is a friend of Kid Roberts he can steal the ball club's franchise and it'll be O. K. with him! The crowd laughs cheerin' Kid Roberts loudly as he sits down again.
Dolores flashed the Kid one grateful look, but the Don don't even thank him. A good scout, this Andalusian banana, what?
The very next day Beatrice Brown commences workin' on Don Miguel in a attempt to get him to spill some inside information on himself. It took about four heavy dates with him, some high-class kiddin', and deep sighs properly placed to make him come through. Then Beatrice has so much to tell us that she busts right up to our room with it, pale and tremblin' and pantin' with rage.
This big double-crossin' four-flusher had offered Beatrice Brown one thousand bucks, even, if she'd help him dope Kid Roberts on the night of his fight with Battlin Miller!
Dopin' a fighter has been done and will be done now and then as long as the game goes on. It ain't near as hard a trick as it sounds—and the very fact that the average person laughs at it, and don't believe the victim, is what makes it easier!
Don Miguel had slipped the horrified Beatrice a little bottle of some goo, which he tells her she must trick Kid Roberts into drinkin' before he enters his dressin' room at Jersey City the night of the quarrel. It' work about three-quarters of a hour later, accordin' to this yellow hound, and it won't bump the Kid off by no means. In fact, it'll be a Godsend to him, says the Don, because Battlin' Miller is goin' to half kill Kid Roberts, anyways, and this potion of his will prevent the Kid from feelin' the pain. By this time Don Miguel thinks he's sitting pretty with Bee, so he likewise informs her that he expects to clean up on the fight and afterward him and her will go places. Bee says he wanted to kiss her to show his good faith, and the mere thought made her seasick. She stalled him off and says she'll think matters over and then she beat it to us.
When Beatrice stops, breathless—and she ain't no more breathless than we are—Kid Roberts pats her shoulder and tells her she's a good little girl and he won't soon forget her. The Kid takes the bottle of the Don's brew from her and sends Ptomaine Joe out with it to a chemist. Our instructions to Beatrice is brief—go right back and tell Don Miguel she has decided to accept his offer and Kid Roberts will enter the ring as goofy as all the idiots in the world!
A introduction to the Kid, one of his signed photos, two ringside seats for the setto with Battlin' Miller, and, last but not least, a century note, induced the bell captain to sneak me into the parlor of Don Miguel's suite when the Don was out and help me plant a dictograph there. Then we had Beatrice go up and talk his scheme over with him, repeatin' all the details and makin' the Don answer with her pretty mouth and his ugly fly trap a couple feet from where we had Mr. Dictograph hid.
So that was that!
For two or three days before the fight, Beatrice reports the Don holdin' conferences in his rooms with nearly all the sharpshooters and sure-thing gamblers around New York, and the night of the battle this educated money has made Battlin' Miller a three to one favorite, as the results of what these master minds has heard from the Don. Me and everybody connected with the Kid's camp got down hook, line, and sinker on Kid Roberts at these juicy odds. Just before we filed into the dressin' room I bet five grand for the Kid himself. The talent is set for a hog killin', but we see no reason why the hog shouldn't turn and at least bite some of 'em!
When Ptomaine Joe crawled through the ropes for his second professional scrap—the semi-windup with Tornado Tate—the house was packed to the rafters with a noisy, fight-crazy mob. Two-thirds of the customers seems to remember Ptomaine's first start and they greet him accordin'ly, with the result that the inexperienced, excitable Ptomaine is pretty well licked by his nerves as he stands in his corner waitin' for the bell. Without a peer as a rough-and-tumble mauler, Ptomaine Joe was a fish out of water in a ring—with rules, bells, gloves, and a referee to prevent gougin' and knifin', Once the gong rang, Ptomaine rushed wildly and landed the first blow, a glancin' left to the head, but took a terrible right uppercut in return as they come to close quarters. That's the punch which licked him! It shook Ptomaine from stem to stern, and the mob was quick to see he was in distress, rockin' the clubhouse with howls. Tornado Tate had found out all he wished to about his man and he started drivin' Ptomaine all over the ring. Another right uppercut sprawled the ex-chef on the floor, but he jumped up without waitin' for the count and gamely charged at Tate, only to go down again on all fours from a fearful right and left to the stomach. He was up again at "nine," swayin' dizzily and practically out on his feet. I reached for the sponge, but before I could toss it in Tate's carefully timed right caught Ptomaine flush on the chin. He went down like a log and was counted out, just one minute after the start of the battle. This made my glass-jawed fighter's record to date read: knocked out an even twice in exactly two starts. Not so good!
Now that the cheaper help had been quickly disposed of, the big crowd settled back comfortably to scan the twelve-round struggle between Kid Roberts and Battlin' Miller, either one a better man than the fadin' heavyweight champ in the firm opinion of half the mob at the ringside. Miller was first to enter the ring and drew a big hand, but the Kid's desperate attempt to come back and regain his title appealed to the crowd's emotions and Roberts got an ovation.
The weights was announced as 194 for Kid Roberts and 196½ for Miller, who likewise seemed to have a bit more height and reach than the Kid. The Battler's muscles bulged like a wrestler's and he was as hairy as a chimpanzee, one of his trainin' methods apparently bein' not gettin' shaved for a month before the mill. Against this cave man, the Kid's white, clean-cut body stood out under the glarin' lights over the ropes till it was plain to the worst roughneck in the crowd why the sport writers had christened him "the Adonis of the ring." Miller's handlers eyed the Kid sharply when they come over to examine his bandages, prob'ly lookin' to see if the dope had worked on him yet. I winked and grinned mysteriously at 'em, and they went back to their corner lookin' serious.
At the sound of the bell Kid Roberts was out of his corner like a flash, meetin' Miller before that baby was half-ways to mid-ring. The Kid shot in two sizzlin' lefts to the face and then ripped a hard right to the body. Miller staggered, and the crowd cheered wildly. The Battler then shook his head and dove into a clinch, poundin' Roberts hard on the kidneys. He suddenly switched his attack to the head, and the Kid went back against the ropes with Miller on top of him, borin' in with both gloves workin' fast for the wind. The referee broke 'em and both missed rights to the jaw. Kid Roberts waded in again, hammerin' Miller about the body with rights and lefts. Miller appeared to be hurt by this treatment and his handlers roared for him to "Bring it up!' He did—a torrid right uppercut sendin' the Kid's head back and stoppin' his charge short, but Miller missed the follow-up—a left hook—and took four stiff jabs to the nose without a return. Roberts then hooked his right to the neck, Miller counterin' smartly with a hard smash to the head.
Kid Roberts fell back a few steps and as Miller rushed in with his head lowered he shot two hard rights to that part of the Battler's chassis, one of which cut the Battler's ear. They were clinched at the gong, poundin' away merrily at each other's ribs. A round of applause greeted the boys as they run to their corners and the referee leaned down over the ropes to remark to the sport writers: "Here's two that's tryin'!"
Over in Miller's corner his handlers is spendin' as much time lookin' at us as they are in workin' over their greatly surprised leather pusher. They can't seem to understand why Kid Roberts ain't commencin' to act silly, Well, I'm ready to have him act that way now!
Miller come out cautiously for the second frame, but Kid Roberts was even more cautious, walkin' slowly to the center of the ring, his eyelids lowered and his feet draggin' after him. After studyin' the Kid for a second, the Battler took heart and jabbed lightly with his left. The punch wouldn't of cracked a china cup, but Roberts swayed back against the ropes as though hit by a batterin' ram. It looks weird to the attendance, and they yell murder, but to the gang in Miller's corner it's the tip-off! They're now certain the Kid's on Queer Street and they shriek: "Now! Let him have it—give him everything, Miller!"
Then the fireworks started!
With a confident grin on his face, Miller again jabbed with his left, then crossed a wicked right to the jaw. The Kid broke the force of the punch by rollin' his head with it and countered with a weak right that missed by a foot. Miller nearly laughed out loud as he drove Roberts to a neutral corner, sprayin' him with lefts and rights to the head. With the ropes scrapin' against his back and the house in a uproar, Kid Roberts looked over Miller's shoulder to me, and I nodded.
Instantly Kid Roberts straightened up and took a lot of ambition out of Miller with a right hook that wobbled the Battler's knees. Amazed at this turn of affairs, Miller tried to clinch, but the Kid shook him off and dropped him to one knee with a murderous right over the heart. The din from the crowd drowned out the referee's count, but watchin' his risin' and fallin' arm, Miller was up at "eight," badly dazed and punch-drunk. Roberts rushed, ducked a wild right swing and sent Miller back on his heels with a straight left to the mouth. Another left to the same place crashed the Battler against the ropes to rebound into a right uppercut that almost tore his head off his shoulders. Kid Roberts stepped quickly away and Miller sank to the floor, through for the evenin'! His dumfounded handlers dragged the carcass to their corner, and, after shakin' his limp gloved hand, the Kid sprung lightly through the ropes whilst the crowd cracked the paint with cheers. Beyond a slightly puffed lip, Kid Roberts ain't got a mark on him, but it was ten minutes before Battlin' Miller was able to leave the ring.
When we bust through the millin' mob into our dressin' room, we're brought up short inside the door by a amazin' spectacle. Ptomaine Joe has got no less than Don Miguel Espinosa backed against the wall. Ptomaine is amusin' himself by takin' free swings at the frantic Spaniard, deliberately missin' him by the fraction of a inch each time.
"Hello, people!" grins Ptomaine pleasantly. "I was waitin' till you guys come in before beatin' this egg into a jelly! I"
"What are you doing here, sir?" butts in Roberts sternly, lookin' dynamite at the unhappy Don.
"This—this animal brought me here by force!" chokes the Don, glarin' at Ptomaine. "I will have you all arrested! I"
"Aw, shut up, you big mock orange!" I cut him off. "You won't have nobody pinched—what d'ye think of that? I got a good mind to let Ptomaine knock you off! Beatrice Brown is ready to testify that you wanted to dope Kid Roberts to-night, and if that ain't enough I had a dictograph planted in your room all the time you was talkin' to her and them gamblers. By the way, them birds thinks you deliberately double-crossed 'em, and they're out for your hide!"
Don Miguel is whiter than a dollar's worth of milk and seems to have a bad attack of the ague. Kid Roberts's grim face relaxes as he looks at him, and his lips curl in a sneer of contempt. Then he shrugs his shoulders and starts in to dress, payin' no further attention to the tremblin' Don.
"I—I—will leave the city at once and never return if you will open that door and let me go," he stammers. "I swear it! Sapristi—that terrible woman!"
Ptomaine Joe's eyes become slits. "Which terrible woman?" he asks carelessly.
"That Brown woman of the hotel!" says the Don. "May she—"
Sock!
Reachin' over my shoulder, Ptomaine knocked Mr. Don Miguel Espinosa as cold as a pawnbroker's smile. Then he coolly leans over and looks at his prey carefully:
"'At was a sweet punch," he remarks, in a well-satisfied voice. "A darb! This jobbie will be out for half a hour. Now, how the hell is it I can't do that in a ring?"