danced around him cuttin' him to ribbons, but apparently unable to put him away on account of his uncalled for size.
At first the crowd was thunderstruck by the Arab's clownish exhibition, then enraged and fin'ly convulsed with laughter at his weird antics. As matters went along, the sheik got better—as an entertainer. Every time one of the Kid's busy gloves thudded home into some part of his rapidly reddenin' body, Thomas would wow the customers by howlin' a wild Arabian oath and gallopin' madly around the ring, the while makin' horrible faces at the Kid. Even repeated warnin's from the almost hysterical referee failed to improve Mr. Arab's style, though it did make him look longin'ly at that official, like he would love to smack him down.
But the real thrills of the evenin' was yet to come! The mob had paid fancy prices to see a fight and not no circus. They soon got tired laughin' and begin a bedlam of groans, jeers and squawks for their money back. Cushions, programs, pop bottles and similar confetti begin hurtlin' into the ring and the place was in a uproar. Ptomaine loudly beseeched me to let him through the ropes and take just one punch at the Arab, as here at last is a guy he knows he can knock off!
The referee disgustedly leans down over the ropes and tells the merrily guffawin' reporters that he's about made up his mind to stop this farce and call it "no contest," when the Arabian nightmare takes matters into his own hands. Infuriated at his inability to connect solidly with the grinnin' Kid Roberts, Thomas
