though, was altogether different. The Kid's classical forehead is drawn together in a frown which ridges it like a washboard, and every now and then he shoots a angry glare at some bozo which is gettin' a close-up of the girl through opera glasses. In fact, his plain air of dislike for matters gets me puzzled.
"What's the big idea, Kid?" I whisper, nudgin' him. "Don't the young lady knock you over as a actress?"
"The costume that child has on is disgraceful!" says the Kid angrily. "Look at these leering beasts about us smacking their lips!"
"Well, she's a tasty number," I says soothingly. "If"
"If I'd had the faintest idea that Désirée would be engaged for any such spectacle as this," goes on Kid Roberts, ignorin' me, "I would never have had her name filed with that infernal theatrical agency. I feel the responsibility is mine, and I shall certainly endeavor to place her elsewhere. That abbreviated costume is so incongruous with her natural innocent naïveté—it is as if a baby's picture was on the label of a whisky bottle!"
Well, as long as we're there we settle back to watch the champion punch the bag, skip rope, box a couple of rounds with a sparrin' partner, and go through other routine trainin' exercises. The heavyweight king was in great shape, there was no gettin' away from that—looked to me to be no more than a month away from his best fighting form.
We're just about to leave, when there comes a startlin' interruption. Oliver's press agent has found out
