few days' gruellin' workouts, even the open-mouthed hicks from the village bein' barred. One mornin' when I go down to the little post office for the mail, a jobbie comes up to me and accuses me of bein' Joe Murphy, world-famous manager of the world-famous Kid Roberts.
I broke down and pleaded guilty to the charge, and the stranger's next imitation was to identify himself. He's Mr. Hubert de Grasse, he brags, and he baffles the almshouse by directin' the movies of the unreasonably beautiful Myrtle Magnificent, of Earthquake, Cal., who I must of heard tell of. I never had and could prove it, but I yessed him, anyways. Hubert then testified that his company is there on location makin' some scenes of "Cuckoo Husbands," Myrtle's latest yokel-thriller, and they would like nothin' better than to see Kid Roberts train.
I told Mr. Director that I deeply sympathized with him, but his request was out, as Kid Roberts was on the brinks of a important fight and nobody could see him but his handlers, not even President Coolidge. Hubert de Grasse pleaded and coaxed, but I was so firm that alongside of me the Rock of Gibraltar would look like a jelly! Even when Hubert called over Myrtle Magnificent herself to help him, there was no give to me. That shows the world I'm strong-minded, as this iris-soothin' disturbance had more curves than a guy pitchin' a no-hit game and a smile which would distract attention from that kind of a contest! But I was Myrtle-proof, so I just says nothin' stirrin', give 'em a polite bow to split between 'em and danced off. I
