questin' a little less speed, and the Kid snarled for him to stop talkin' and fight, because this fracas was goin' to be level. "You dirty double-crosser!" hisses Fleming and butts the Kid viciously with his head.
"I'm no double-crosser; I didn't agree to anything!" answers Kid Roberts and slammed Fleming with a fearful right uppercut. After that conversation kind of lagged.
Kid Roberts hit Fleming with everything but the timekeeper's watch in that first frame and twice dropped him for short counts, but the Kid was too mad to measure his man and finish him with a punch to a vital spot. His timin' was away off and his judgment was back in the dressin' room. That's all saved Mr. Frederick Fleming from a trip to dreamland in the first two minutes, and at that Freddie took one terrible pastin'! He was on Queer Street from the first minute on and didn't land a clean punch durin' the entire round on the human batterin' ram which danced around him. Gorged with thrills, the crowd had to find room for another one at the bell. With the sound of the gong, Kid Roberts dropped his busy gloves. Sock! Quick as a flash, Fleming shot a left to the wind, and the Kid sprawled flat on his back! A instant of stunned silence, then the house was in a wild uproar. I jumped into the ring and screamin'ly claimed the fight on a foul, whilst Ptomaine and the other handlers dragged the limp Kid Roberts to his corner. Fleming and his seconds protested that he didn't hear the bell—old stuff!—whilst half the mob bawled for the scrap to go on and the other half shrieked "Roberts
