Tim Wise, police captain of the district the theatre's in, and I immediately get a rush of brains to the head. First I tell Kid Roberts to start right for the stage, but take his time in gettin' there. The Kid looks puzzled, but, readin' my face, he does what I tell him, like usual.
The audience cheers wildly as Kid Roberts strolls down the aisle as cool as the Labrador coast, lookin' more like a movie star than a ex-champion heavyweight in his form-fittin' dress suit. I push my way over to Tim Wise and whisper frantically in his ear. Well, a word to this Wise was sufficient! He jumps up and hollers that if any box fight is attempted on that stage he will take great pleasure in pinchin' the house manager and both principals, as the theatre is not equipped with a boxin' license. Halfways across the footlights, Kid Roberts halts, gazes at the scowlin' champion and then shakes his head sorrowfully, like he feels that stoppin' the fracas was a tough break for him. As he starts back to his seat the thrilled audience shakes the roof with applause.
So this stunt, framed by the champ's press agent to make a burn out of Kid Roberts in public, has actually rebounded to my leather pusher's credit. If I'd of sit up all night I couldn't of personally doped a better way to bring Kid Roberts before a mixed metropolitan audience—ready to fight, handsome, polished, and dressed like a fashion plate. You can imagine how this baby stood out on the stage beside the glowerin' cave man which held the title. I bet the weaker sex present had sore hands for a month and the next
