pleasant duties was to lead their chins to the Kid's mighty right till Dame Nature balked 'em from takin' any more punishment, was Ptomaine Joe. In three starts under my disgusted management, Ptomaine had been smacked for a loop exactly three times, but if you think that in any way disturbed this monkey's peace of mind you're crazy. Bein' knocked out thrice in a trio of bouts would of made even a half-wit a bit tired of boxin', but it only seemed to increase Ptomaine's weird longin' for the game. He never let up pesterin' me to get him another quarrel till one day in the gym I throwed four iron dumb-bells at him in pure desperation. I missed him each time, a feat nobody else had ever been able to do in a ring with him.
"Careful, Joe!" says Kid Roberts to me, frownin'. "If you'd struck him with one of those you'd have done a lot of damage!"
"I know I would," I says, "but I'd of paid for them dumb-bells with a smile, if I'd been lucky enough to of hit that big banana with 'em!"
Not the faintest particle upset over the narrow escape he'd just had from makin' me a murderer, Ptomaine picks up the dumb-bells and grins at me pleasantly.
"Better luck next time!" says this typical case of insanity. "You got to get a certain grip on these babies to throw 'em properly. At that, I figured you'd hit me with one of 'em! You should of steadied and took aim, what I mean. Listen—when do I fight again?"
