batic turn, then more music. At this point, Kid Roberts, resplendent in a costly dress suit and lookin' like the Duke of Typhoid, is introduced to the cheerin' multitude. The Kid tells a couple of fight stories and then switches to ring togs, whilst Mr. Band works some more. After runnin' through a few light trainin' exercises, includin' bag punchin' and a couple of fast rounds with Ptomaine Joe, the announcement is made that five hundred fish will be handed over with a smile to the man, woman or child which can stay four rounds with the world's heavyweight champion. The yokels would scramble up and try, Kid Roberts would mercifully give 'em the last lesson first, and, hoopla—we're on our ways to the next trap, prob'ly five or six grand to the good!
What could be sweeter?
Well, we hit the Coast without nobody havin' cullected the five-hundred-buck reward, though a two-hundred and twenty-five pounder entitled "Carbolic Acid" McSapp lasted three of the four rounds before a short inside right to the button changed all his plans and give him some much needed sleep. Barrin' nobody on earth, the Kid had stopped eighteen tomatoes in from one to two rounds—tough, willin' huskies, eager for the mere reputation of havin' boxed the world famous Kid Roberts and not at all sickened by the chance to grab off that five hundred. First-class, scientific publicity by your boy friend, aided by sympathetic and admirin' sport writers and the fact that Kid Roberts was a popular idol, drawed overflow crowds all along the trip which was somethin' more
