As Ptomaine's pettin' party with Two-Punch McGazzati was scheduled to go at 8 p. m.—bein' the first preliminary—I sent him out to the abattoir, whilst I started over to the promoter's office to tend to the squawk about the third man in the ring. I didn't care who Knockout Ford's choice was—all me and the Kid wanted was a guy which could count up to ten!
I'm millin' through Times Square, tossed this way and that by the excited mob which is pourin' into the subway en route to the fight, when somebody grabs at my coat. Holdin' on to my watch and roll, I swung around, but it wasn't no dip had me. It was "Honest-Dollar" Reilly, one of the biggest gamblers which ever was ready to lay eight to five it would rain or eight to five it wouldn't. I still held on to my valuables. Reilly had a flock of hooch under his belt—in fact, his tongue should of been plastered with revenue stamps!
"Well, well, well!" he chortles. "See who we have here! You better watch your step, Mister Sap, or some of these city slickers will sell you Grant's Tomb! How d'ye like the movies?"
"What movies?" I ask him.
"Ha, ha, ha!" bust out Reilly. "What movies, hey! Well, what a Patsy they made out of you!"
"How come, Reilly?" I snapped out, grabbin' his arm. Did you ever have a feelin' that somethin' tough was goin' to happen? I had it plenty right then!
"I'll tell you how come and then you'll take arsenic!" grins Reilly. "You and your box fighter has fell for one of the rawest frames ever pulled off in this man's
