that—that bartender there. What was I tryin' to say? Oh, Kid Robersh. Well, say, they's as mush chance Kid Robersh bein' shampeen as they ish of me becomin' total 'stainer! Howsh Kid Robersh gonna be shamp if he don't never under no circumstances get a chance at the title? Ansher me that, heh?"
I commenced to smell large quantities of rats in this drunken talk, especially after Dummy Carney's proposition, so I quietly lead Monsieur Jack Easton into the back room and sit down at a table with him. When I left him sprawled out there, gettin' the bartender nervous with his snores some time later, I was on the verge of hydrophobia, and I think if Dummy Carney had come along then I would of took a chance and croaked him for luck!
It set me back seven rounds of drinks, or, in the other words, $14, to find out that Dummy had framed me and the Kid like Delia framed Samson. There wasn't gonna be no "draw" decision at New Orleans. There wasn't gonna be no second fight, and the champ wasn't gonna ever meet Kid Roberts if he could help it! The half-plastered Easton let all that fall from his silly-lookin' face some time between the fifth and sixth shot of grain alcohol, when he couldn't even recall who I was. The big tramp which held the title didn't want no part of Kid Roberts—what he wanted to do was to meet Tiger Capato, which same he figured would be a spread for him. Therefore, Capato was to put the Kid away in the battle of New Orleans and kill off our claims to a championship mill. The knockout was to come in Round Four, by the way.
