second frame and the Kid met him before he was out of his own corner with a smash under the heart that hung him over the ropes, where he covered up and waited for it. But the Kid stepped away, payin' no attention to the groans of the mob, and Kennedy suddenly jabbed his left to the face, fallin' in and clinchin' with the punch. I couldn't figure the move till I seen his knee come up with a jerk and then I shrieked—but it was too late. That big stiff's bony kneecap caught the Kid in the pit of the stomach, and Roberts slid slowly to the floor, gaspin', his face twisted in the agony of the lowest foul known to the prize ring. That, of course, was Kennedy's game—to cripple the boy. He'd had enough, and he wanted to lose on a foul rather than be knocked out. He'd made no attempt to conceal the thing, which was plain to every one of the wildly yelpin' customers. The referee waved Kennedy to his corner, and me and my merry men jumped into the ring and ran to the Kid, which was now sittin' up and bitin' his lips till they was a thin red stream tricklin' down his drawn face, but the look in his eyes, fastened on Kennedy, was terrible to see. We helped him up and started to half carry him to his corner, but he pushed us away and braced himself against the ropes, seemin'ly gettin' stronger every second. That kid's vitality was remarkable! The referee held up his hand and gradually the noise died down.
"Gentlemen!" he says, "I award this bout to Kid Roberts on a foul and—"
The rest was lost in the uproar, but the Kid grabs the referee's arm. "Don't award me anything," he
