"Say—what's your real name?" I interrupted.
"Do I have to pass a civil service examination to get a telephone numbaire here'r" says the stranger peevishly. "I vos born in Koshva, I'm single, I got my foist papaires, I'm a fightaire, Vashington vos the foist President, I don't believe in the I. W. W. and my name is Rosenberg! Now could I get that telephone call?"
"Your name is Rosenberg?" I gasp. "What's your first name—Hershel?"
"No—Isaac," he says. "I got a brother Hershel. You know that lowlife?"
"He works here," I told him. "He's a bellboy and he also calls himself Kid Rose. Your family's a regular bouquet, isn't it?"
"Oy, catch me a gless of vataire!" says Ike, with a groan. "So that's vot he is—a bellhop, hey? Gevhalt, that's a business!"
"Which of you is the real Kid Rose?" I asked him, as curious as you are.
"Vy, naturel, I am, of course!" says Ike. "Hershel couldn't vin a fight if they should let him come in the ring vit a hatchet in each hand. He don't know a right hook from the timekeepaire!"
This affectionate brother then proceeded to give me the lowdown on his charming relative, and honestly it was rich. It seems that Ike Rosenberg, the real fighter
