Me and Ptomaine escorted Kid Roberts into the city and we took up positions on the outskirts of a mob which was listenin' to Dolores do her stuff from a big auto at Tenth Avenue and Forty-Eighth Streets. Besides bein' as attractive as sin, Dolores was plenty talker—she could do with the English language what Willie Hoppe can do with a billiard ball, what I mean! Everything was runnin' along smooth and even me and Ptomaine was interested in her chatter, when some guerillas in the audience begin to heckle the girl. In one minute flat, Kid Roberts gets red-headed and in two minutes we're mixed up in one of the snappiest free-for-alls I ever been in in my life and I been in more than several! For awhile, it was a better fight than the one at Verdun from the spectators' standpoint. None of these guys was cake-eaters by no means and it soon became a typical case of nothin' barred and the man which goes down loses! In the excitement, Dolores sped away in her car and I don't know if she even seen us or knew we was in there tryin.' Anyways, when the reserves come to our assistance—not that we particularly needed them bulls—we throwed a bevy of brickbats at the last few runners and checked up on our casualties, I had a set of skinned kunckles, my nose was inclined to be a bit gory and the majority of Ptomaine's bulky ears had been badly cut by a iron hoop which one of our charmin' tête-à-têtes skillfully wielded. But the worst break we got happened to Kid Roberts. His right hand—the money paw—was a ugly, inflamed red and all swelled up like a new judge!
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