of a good story, hey? Well, hold everything and I'll see what I can do with 'em. Don't expect too much.
By knockin' Bob Young for a goal, Kid Roberts made good one of his ambitions, the heavyweight championship of the globe. The Kid's other modest desires; financial independence and the return of his balky bride Dolores, was still to be realized, but winnin' the title had brung him within eyesight of both. Bein' the Kid's pilot, I'm busy mappin' out a campaign and dickerin' for some quarrels which we figured would place him on Comfortable Boulevard within the year. Then my athalete was goin' to throw his gloves right into the ashcan and call it a day, as he'd faithfully promised his lovely wife. Dolores was all girl and any male would promise her anything, they would for a positive fact!
Well, speakin' of avocados, I found it far from child's play to line up for my champion a immediate bout which would bring home the bacon in box cars. I couldn't just send him out to fight in the streets, on the account that the quicker he got monetarily carefree, the quicker he could claim exemption from the hooks and jabs and talk his wife out of the divorce thing. He wanted to lose her like you want to lose your left lung and he gave me no peace, day or night! You see, on our ways up to the heavyweight crown—our second trip, as you might remember—we was so wild to get the title that we didn't haggle over pennies. The results was that some of our brawls paid little more than trainin' expenses and our cash on hand would certainly never cause Wall Street to tremble in
