and all, maybe you can cope with Two-Punch McGazzati, at that. He ain't fought for a year, so he should be a spread for you."
"Why ain't he fought for a year?" asks Ptomaine.
"Oh, he's just been under suspension," I says carelessly. "He killed the last guy he boxed!"
"For cryin' out loud!" gasps Ptomaine. "You pick 'em soft for me, don't you? How much sugar do I get for executin' this murderer?"
"Ptomaine," I says seriously, "if by some mysterious miracle you smack this fellow down, your wages for the afternoon's work will be three hundred bucks. Should he stop you, somethin' that's certain, not only do you not get a nickel—but I'm goin' to fine you five hundred fish for wastin' my time in carryin' you along! If that's too rich for your blood, you can cancel the bout right now!"
Ptomaine tries the terrific feat of thinkin'.
"Get me that big false alarm," says this clown, after a minute. "I got three hundred iron men saved and like as not I can borrey the other two hundred from the Kid."
I have met some maniacs in this game, but that's the first one I run across yet which was dyin' to pay five hundred smackers for the privilege of bein' knocked for a Flemish bath-house!
Well, to make a short story long, about ten days before Kid Roberts is to fight Knockout Ford nothin' less than a movin-picture outfit arrives in the hamlet where we're camped. I had long ago closed our trainin' quarters to visitors, like I always do during the last
