Once again he cuts me off, this time handin' me a cigar. "I'm Capato's manager!" he says coolly.
The cigar tumbled out of my hands on the floor and Dummy sit down and laughed out loud.
"Somethin' of a surprise party, hey?" he sneers. "Well, what's wrong about me buyin' Capato from Eddie Rainey—which is what I done?" He reaches in his pocket and flips me a paper. "There's the contract," he says. "As legal as snowballin' in Iceland. I told you I'd get me a boy which would bounce that cuckoo of yours—and I got him!"
Feelin' more at ease, I laid the contract on a table and took up the sport of grinnin' myself.
"Stop makin' me laugh!" I remarks. "Where's the matchmaker for the New Orleans abbattoir that's gonna stage the slaughter of your tramp?"
"Ah-heh!" coughs Dummy, knockin' the ash off his cigar. "Eh—I'm the matchmaker!"
Sweet Mamma!
"You're one terrible busy guy, ain't you?" I sneers, teachin' for my hat and gettin' up. "Well you got nothin' on me—so am I! The next time you wanna frame somebody, Dummy, get further out in the suburbs. I was pullin' off them kinda fights before you had wore out your first rattle. This here's gonna make a swell story for the sport writers to tie into—so long!"
"Sit down and don't be no stupider than you can help!" he snarls. "Did I ever strike you as bein' a hick? I got a business proposition to make you, durin' which time we'll forget our wild love for each other and let bygones be bygones. It's about the last chance we'll get to clean up, no matter if Capato knocks Kid Roberts
