and a right hook spilled him over backwards like the roof had fell on him. The count was a waste of time! At "seven" the champ's eyes opened and he blinked up at the blindin' lights goofily. "Eight!" roars the referee, his arm risin' and fallin' and Young got to one knee, slipped back again and laid prostrate on his stomach where he was at the fatal "ten!" Many thought Young didn't wish to get up. Well, who would, after bein' knocked cold twice in one night!
Forty-five minutes later we managed to shake off the ravin' fans in and about the ring and got to the dressin' rooms. Inside is two coppers and a little, red-headed, freckle-faced messenger boy. The admirin' cops rush to open the door, one of 'em gettin' so excited he took off his hat to the Kid. The messenger boy runs over and grabs at the Kid's bandaged hands.
"I knew you'd take 'at big stiff!" he hollers. "I win three bucks on you, Mister Roberts. I—Oh, hey, I got a letter for you. I been here a hour. I was supposed to slip it to you before you went in the ring to-night."
"Well, why didn't you?" asks the Kid, rippin' open the envelope. I seen he knew the handwritin' from the way his good eye sparkled.
The messenger glares at the coppers, which looks a bit sheepish.
"These fat-headed bulls wouldn't let me in!" he says. "They thought I was tryin' to crash the gate to see the fight!"
"Well, you delivered—beat it!" growls one of the coppers.
