addin' that unless I could show him some speed he'd haul off and try his hand at bein' his own manager!
The heavyweight crown still rested on the head of Mr. Bob Young. Bobbie was too proud to fight for less than $300,000 cash in advance, half the movin'-picture loot, the hot-dog concession at the arena, his own hand-picked referee, the bottlin' rights to the Pacific Ocean, or what have you? Young's argument was that he's entitled to these meager rewards, as he's the drawin' card, bein' champion. Accordin' to that figurin', the ex-Kaiser should be gave $10,000,000,000, as look at the mob he drawed to Europe a few years ago!
How the so ever, Bob Young didn't wish to swap smacks with us under no circumstances. Mr. Champion had already tasted the delights of goin' in there with Kid Roberts, and as the Kid had knocked him as stiff as a drum major's back, Bob wasn't exactly sold on the idea of takin' him on again.
At first the sport writers laughed off my account of that fracas in Mexico, but when I kept on bombardin' Young with challenges and Young kept on passin' us by for third-rate set-ups, them editors begin to get thoughtful. The clean-cut, handsome, hard-hittin' Kid's sensational career had always made him a great favorite with the best people in the world—the newspaper guys. Young's stallin' us off was makin' most of 'em figure that maybe there was a drop of truth in my claim that Kid Roberts had actually stopped the champion. Pretty soon they all printed my story—somethin' they had flatly refused to do before—and
