At this critical point I passed out for the time being.
When I come to I am in the dressing room with my handlers busy working over me. Nate is standing beside me with a serious look on his face.
"What did I do—get knocked?" I says, kind of dazed.
Nate grins and commences to tell me what happened, and though I'm still kind of goofy I gradually remember Killoran fouling me. The pain, which is coming back, is a great aid to my memory. Well, I am good and mad and don't think I ain't. I don't want to win no fights like that—I want to knock 'em dead or get knocked dead—no draws or referee's decisions, or newspaper verdicts means anything to me! Then who walks into the dressing room but Mr. Wild Bill Killoran, some sport writers, Rags Dempster, and Spence Brock.
"What's the idea?" snorts Nate, running to the door. "We ain't giving no party here!"
"Just wanted to see how badly your boy was hurt, that's all Nate," says one of the newspaper guys.
"Hurt?" sneers Wild Bill, shoving his ugly face up to me. "Where would he get hurt? He didn't like it, that what's the matter with him! He got away with murder, claimin' that foul. The punch that put him down landed on that glass jaw of his!"
"That's correct, gentlemen," butts in Rags Dempster to the reporters. "I saw the blow land!"
"You're a liar!" hollers Nate. "As for you, you big yellah hound—" he begins, turning to Wild Bill.
