gasps. "I want to knock that dog out. Let the fight go on—I'm all right!"
The referee's eyes come near partin' forever with his head.
"You're crazy, son!" he grunts. Then, turnin' to me: "Hey, you better look after your man. Is there a doctor in—"
Kid Roberts breaks away from him and walks to the center of the ring, holdin' up both hands and like magic the yells dies away again.
"Gentlemen," says the Kid, slowly and painfully, "you came here to witness a boxing exhibition, and unfortunately it has been interrupted. I am perfectly willing and able to continue, and that's what I want to do! The referee says I've been fouled—that's correct. But I'm not badly hurt and if I'm willing to take a chance, why shouldn't he?"
Sweet Mamma—you should of heard them babies out in front then!
So many things come off in such sensationally quick succession after that that it's hard to get 'em in order. I tried to drag the Kid to his corner and got shoved half-way through the ropes. The mob surged back and forth yellin' for the fight to go on, and in Kennedy's corner they took up the shout. They was only too anxious now. Their man had got a rest, and the Kid was plainly all in. Here was a chance to turn defeat into a certain knockout for Kennedy. The referee hesitated, looked out at the crowd, shook his head, and fin'ly threw up his hands and walked to the ropes. Somebody rung the bell, and, like a flash, Kennedy was off his stool, plungin' at the Kid, which
