wouldn't give her a tumble and chased her out of the trainin' quarters, what must she be now when on top of that Kid Roberts had slapped her sweetie, Frankie Nolan, for a gondola? For pure venom, rage, wickedness and hate I still got to see anything to equal the look that girl give me when I stared down into her eyes. I turned away quick, much chilled!
Whilst Ptomaine Joe and Cyclone McEinstein are listenin' to the referee's instructions, I'm worryin' myself sick. My fears ain't for Ptomaine—I knew he was goin' to get it—I was troubled about Kid Roberts. But then I think what can Beth possibly try to pull with that crowd watchin' every move? She ain't sittin' near enough to a corner to switch water bottles on the Kid or anything like that. She wouldn't dare have a gun, as this is real life and not no movie. She can't monkey with the lights—what the Omaha could she do? I figured the answer was nothin' and impatiently cleared my mind of her. She fooled me by doin' the one thing I never thought of!
There's no use presentin' here a round by round description of the Ptomaine Joe-Cyclone McEinstein catastrophe, stopped by the charitable referee in the fifth round to save Mons. McEinstein from goin' to the chair for murder. The details would be as tasty as the details of a day's work at the slaughter house. Up to the time the referee called a halt, McEinstein had hit Ptomaine with everything but the club's licence and hit him everywhere but in the instep: The Cyclone was all his name declared him to be—a aimless swinger whose wild blows often put the referee in serious dan-
