hand waves and a little farther back I pick out Rags Dempster with some of his cronies. In this case stony stares is exchanged. Wild Bill Killoran is already in the ring, and from where I sit he looks like a tough egg, he does for a fact! The weights is announced as 162½ for me and 174 for my charming adversus. This draws some moans from the crowd, but a twelve-pound handicap means nothing in my young life. I figure I'll soon cut Wild Bill down to my size, and after that, a little lower.
Wild Bill starts right out after my goat when we get called to the middle of the ring for instructions. "Do I walk to my corner and wait for the count every time I knock this guy down?" he says to the referee.
"Be yourself, you big boloney!" I snarled. "The only thing you ever knocked down in your life is nickels when you was a street-car conductor. You'll go out of here to-night on a shutter!"
"Shut up!" says the referee to both of us. "Fight with your hands!"
Then the fun began.
Wild Bill shows where he got his name by charging out of his corner like a wounded lion at the bell. He was short with a terrific right swing, and when I duck under his left it whizzed by the panic-stricken referee's ear, only missing him by a scant inch and dumb luck! The crowd howls with joy. I leaped in with a hard left to the head and shot a stiffer right to the heart before Wild Bill knew what it was all about. He looked surprised and begin backing to the ropes, with me following, cautiously. "C'mon, fight!" I grin at
