and winks heavy. "You—eh—you wanna beg K. O.'s pardon, don't you?"
Don't I? Say, you ought to see me grab this chance to escape being killed. I can't get my hand out quick enough. Imagine me hitting Knockout Kelly!
Knockout Kelly just barely touched my hand. "We'll get together on this again, feller!" he mumbles, not very forgiving, I must say.
"Sure!" says his friend, smiling at me and patting Knockout Kelly's shoulders. "Sure—we'll play you again some time. But now—eh—ever do any boxin', kid?" he asks me, looking me up and down.
"No, sir," I says; "I never did."
"Well—you're goin' to!" he says. "I'm Nate Shapiro, K. O.'s pilot. Come up to the Commercial House at ten to-morrow. I wanna talk to you. You're one sweet puncher, if you are a hick, and—"
"I can't get there till noon," I butts in. "I got to open up the store at seven-thirty."
"Open up nothin'!" snorts Nate Shapiro. "You're all through mixin' banana punches and the like. I'll get you more jack for your punches than you'll ever see here. C'mon, K. O."
And they went out.
