—to them both, for that matter—and at least wish him good luck. The best he got was central's favorite, "They don't answer!" He seemed to be broodin' heavy over that whilst he laid on the table and got his final rub and oilin'. Ptomaine Joe, dated up with Cyclone McEinstein, is all set to start for the abattoir and already showin' his usual symptoms of stage fright. The roar of the crowd outside watchin' one of the preliminaries was comin' to us like the steady drone of a cloudburst on a tin roof and Ptomaine shivered like that's what it was and he had to go out in it nude!
Although I argued myself black in the pan against leavin' him, Kid Roberts insisted on me goin' behind Ptomaine for his bout. I had competent handlers to send out with this baby, but the Kid, which wanted to see Ptomaine win a fight, says my moral support and coachin' might help him make the grade for once. Ptomaine added his own frantic entreaties and I fin'ly give in, I guess I must of had a soft spot in my heart for this brainless wonder at that!
When we stepped into the ring, the crowd give me a mild hand as Kid Roberts' manager. Ptomaine thinks the applause is for him and solemnly takes a bow, which causes the laughin' customers to give him the razzberry. That helped his nerves a lot, as he immediately proved by puttin' his foot in the bucket and upsettin' it when he sit down on his stool. More loud howls from the mob. I turned the serious Ptomaine over to his seconds and spent the next five minutes closely inspectin' the ring in which Kid Roberts would soon be fightin' for the world's championship, financial independence, and,
