Fin'ly he lets forth a sigh, picks up the razor, and continues on with the shavin'.
"So I'm degenerating into a beast, eh?" he says half to himself whilst he scrapes away viciously. "Well, I'm glad you called my attention to that—though it would be strange indeed if the vapor of sordid, bestial atmosphere surrounding my present—eh—profession, did not slightly tarnish the highly sensitive polish of some generations of refinement. I suppose," he adds, with a short laugh, "when I get out of this infernal game I'll have to spend some time in a finishing school before I'll trust myself to enter a drawing room!"
Slappin' on the bay rum, he was grinnin' again like the kid he was.
"Now about this Tiger Capato, the fellow I have to whip before I meet"—his voice shook a bit with pure, undiluted joy—"before I meet the champion. Are you getting in touch with him?"
For answer I pointed to the bed, which was cluttered with telegrams from every fight club in North America, with the possible exception of the Mexican Senate. We went over 'em together and fin'ly decided the best offer come from New Orleans, the fracas to be held there within a month and to be a fifteen-round rough-house to a referee's decision. That last item give me a giggle. In fifteen rounds Kid Roberts could of licked 850 Tiger Capatos and, as for the decision thing, all we craved was a guy which could count up to "ten" in a loud and melodious voice!
The vulgar financial details of the bout was a
