"The minute the next draft comes along!" I says, promptly.
"I don't crave the army," says Ptomaine, "I wish to fuss around in a ring."
"You got a swell chance, clown!" I says. "They wouldn't let you in a fight club no more if you was on the boxin' commission, Why, the sport writers is callin' you the Divin' Venus!"
"'At ain't goin' to make me break out in tears," says Ptomaine, scornfully. "Them guys is just sore, 'at's all!"
"Sore at what?" I ask him, turnin' on a sneer.
"Sore at my habit of fallin' on top of 'em when I get knocked through the ropes," says Ptomaine. "As if a man can be choosey about spots to land in at a time like 'at!"
By this time, the other inmates of the gym which has been standin' around listenin' is in convulsions. Even Kid Roberts' worry-lined face has relaxed a bit, provin' that as a entertainer Ptomaine had few equals and prob'ly was worth carryin' with the camp for that reason alone, like the Kid claims. But this mackerel wasn't satisfied with just bein' a circus around the gym—you couldn't keep him out of the ring with a injunction.
A few days later, Ptomaine comes to me with a brand new argument. He's as serious as a four-alarm fire in Wall Street.
"Listen here," he says, "I been studyin' things over and I'm fin'ly convinced 'at I got no more chance of bein' a champion than I got of bein' Queen of China
