He calls to Daniels. Daniels stops and Ptomaine walks up to him.
"You big yellah tramp," remarks Ptomaine, in a easy conversational tone, "I'm goin' to pound you into a jelly! You won't beat up no more guys half your size or hound no girls when"
Sock!
With the speed of a strikin' rattlesnake, Daniels's right fist shot from his hip and caught Ptomaine square on the mouth. It was a terrible punch—unexpected, perfectly measured and with two hundred pounds of muscle and bone behind it. It would of rocked Dempsey. It dropped Ptomaine as if he'd been hit with a axe. There was no question about whether or not he was out, but there was some doubt as to whether or not he was dead!
"Next!" sneers Daniels, wipin' his skinned knuckles with a silk handkerchief.
"Here!" comes a familiar voice, choked with rage—and Kid Roberts steps suddenly into the moonlight, with the white-faced Logan at his heels.
"Ah!" says Daniels, his lip curlin' as usual, "I have thrashed the manager and the sparring partner and now I shall make a job of it by thrashing the prima donna of the troupe!"
"At your service!" pants the Kid, manslaughter in each eye. "I would have accommodated you much sooner had I known you were responsible for Joe Murphy's condition. Miss King has told me—everything. Daniels, you are a despicable cur!"
Fifteen minutes later, stripped to the waist and with
