Richmond Daniels, a husky six-footer which had knocked everybody dead as a amateur leather pusher and looked capable of givin' the best of the professionals a tough ten minutes. It was easy to see he was highly regarded as a puncher by all on the island, includin' himself, and till Kid Roberts stepped into the picture the rest of 'em had thought Daniels was the terrapin's telephone.
Bein' one of these four-flushin' loud-mouthed, upstage babies which hates themselves, Daniels liked this state of affairs the same way he liked arsenic. With a sneer on his pan as he stood around with the others watchin' Kid Roberts work out, he'd point out imaginary faults in the Kid's defence and criticize his condition till I got red-headed listenin' to him and only testrained myself from bawlin' him out by usin' control I copied from Job. A couple of times I overheard this boloney break down and confess that he'd of been heavyweight champ himself should he ever of had to fight for a livin'. The flock of yes-men which always surrounds these rich sapolios like flies surrounds a pie counter would agree with him, beggin' him to put on' the gloves with Kid Roberts just to show him up.
Daniels was a trouble maker, and I don't crave trouble makers around a trainin' camp. I didn't want Kid Roberts to box him if there was any way to prevent it because I was afraid this Daniels might know just enough to force the Kid to stop him, and it was a cinch that a knockout of one of Logan's pals would make us as popular as smallpox. I give the Kid my
