selves some more at the expense of Kid Roberts, they untied him from the tree, took off the gag and blindfold and led him to the middle of the clearin', still with his arms bound. I squirmed around on the ground to get a look at him, and, boys and girls, there was hot-blooded murder in each of his blazin', steel-gray eyes! Just to say he was burnt up would be a niggardly use of the descriptive. He was fit to enter a bitin' contest with a bear, no kiddin'!
In the clearing they'd rigged up a kind of ring with some of the manila left over from the tyin'-up party, and in it stood this fake Kid Roberts pullin' on a pair o' mitts.
Jim Barnaby looks the real Kid up and down and laughs sneerin'ly, tosses him a pair of gloves, and tells the supposed "poet" that as a climax to the day's sport he's got to fight the world-famous Kid Roberts or sign a confession that he's yellow which they'll show to Eva Littleton. On this cue the mock orange which has been masqueradin' as Kid Roberts steps forward, folds his arms on his chest, and glares at the Kid. I noticed, how the so ever, that this counterfeit seemed a bit nervous as he took in Kid Robert's mighty muscles and the look of the killer in his eyes.
Barnaby points out in the most insultin' language he could think of that the "poet" is every bit as big and burly as "Kid Roberts" and that nothin' in the world should prevent him from takin' a chance, unless he's willin' to admit that he's faint-hearted. One of these college boys told me later that they hadn't the slightest intention of allowin' such a scrap to take
