"What d'ye mean except the times?" I asked him. "What times?"
"The times you're talkin', you imbecilical mackerel!" says Ptomaine.
Kid Roberts steps between us just in the nick of time to stave off a homicide.
"You two seem to be the only ones who are doing any fighting in this outfit!" says the Kid to me, kind of irritably. "Stop this nonsense and tell me your plan. Here I am, champion of the world, and the title isn't worth a dollar to me! If I don't make some money within the next"
"Just a minute, don't get all worked up, Kid," I butt in hurriedly, as Kid Roberts starts to nervously pace the floor, "I know just how you feel and I been breakin' my neck lookin' for a bout. Well, I got one! There's no one of us figurin' on a scrap any more this year—you know that. We got to wait till some new heavy looms up with enough stuff to make the sport writers build up a bout. In the meanwhile, what's to prevent us tourin' the country, takin' on all corners like John L. Sullivan and them guys used to do? Let's check out of this expensive slab and go places! We can carry three or four vaudeville acts and a jazz band. We'll offer five hundred bucks to any of these local gils which can stay four rounds with you. They'll fall over each other tryin' to get that dough and—Oh, I just know this is goin' to get over, I got a hunch. C'mon, Kid, let's pack up and start boundin' around a bit! Eventually, why not now?"
