the introductions, the posin' for the newspaper photographers, the instructions from the referee and the general thrillin' bustle of this and that which always comes before the first bell in a big fight. As he stood in his corner, facin' the noisy crowd and awaitin' the openin' gong, Mr. Jack Thomas from far off Arabia certainly seemed able to prevent himself from bein' picked on, "Get him quick!" was all the instructions I felt called upon to give Kid Roberts, before I grabbed the stool and ducked down under the ropes.
I've had some surprises in my life and I take it for granted I'm due for some more before the embalmer looks me over with a professional eye and quotes a price for the job. But the league-leader to date is the surprise I got a few seconds after this Arabian world-beater turned to face Kid Roberts at the bell. Honest to Baltimore, Thomas was a terrible joke—he was simply horrible! He seemed to know nothin' what the so ever about the scientific end of the game and his clumsy swings missed the smilin', nimble-footed champion by a city block! The desert warrior's left hand seemed to be more in his way than anything else and he soon let it hang useless at his side. Clumpin' around the ring like a bull elephant, the snortin' Thomas clubbed at Kid Roberts with his aimless right. Whilst any one of these terrible clouts would of ruined the Kid had they landed, there was no more chance of them landin' than there's a chance of me bein' favorably mentioned in Rockfeller's will! Twice the Arabian giant fell flat on his pan as the result of missin' wild haymakers and Kid Roberts
