reels took pictures of us at the station and quite a little gatherin' seen us off with cheers. The Kid's grim struggle back over the long, tough road to regain his title, and all which went with it, had made a million friends, not only in the sportin' world, but everywhere they love gameness. Plenty pretty girls called "Good luck!" to him as he smilin'ly pushed his big shoulders through the admirin' mob to the train. That boy was always a panic with the ladies. Inside the gate he bumps into one of 'em—a little, young blond disturbance with a figure which would annoy Venus. Ptomaine Joe stared at her with gapin' mouth.
"I beg your pardon!" says Kid Roberts to this breath-taker, hat in hand. "I'm awfully sorry I jostled you. I was looking at the car numbers and"
"And I—I was looking at you!" she interrupts shyly.
"C'mon, Kid, we'll miss the rattler!" I butt in, alarmed at her eye work.
As the choo-choo pulls out of the station, Miss Good Lookin's seat turns out to be right across from us. She's got a snappy young fellow with her which looks like a collar ad and is dressed the same as one to boot. They made a very optic-refreshin' pair—in fact, these kids looked a bit like each other. They whispered to each other for a minute, castin' quick side glances at us, to the amusement of the Kid. Then the young fellow squares his shoulders like he's suddenly made up his mind, steps over and coughs kind of nervously.
"Eh—excuse me, but aren't you Kid Reberts?" he wants to know.
