"No!" says the sport writer, scribblin' away. "Why?"
"Nothin'!" I groans and staggered over to the Kid.
There was all smiles in Tiger Capato's corner when I fin'ly went across to examine his bandages, and Carney greets me with a chuckle. I suddenly leaned down and stuck my face right up to his ear.
"You pull them lights and eighty-seven coppers will be in this corner, you rat!" I snarls.
For just a fraction of a second Dummy drawed back and whitened, and then he showed he had missed his trade by not becomin' a actor.
"What's the idea—are you scared crazy?" he says. "What's this stuff about lights?"
I says nothin', but turned my undivided attention to Kid Roberts. The boy was a bundle of raw nerves—bouncin' up and down on his stool, slappin' his hands together with a quick, jerky movement, and bitin' his mps as he stared out at the yellin' crowd. Then the announcer called over to us to come to the center for a flashlight pose, but you couldn't hear a word over the din. Say—they was hangin' from the rafters, sittin' on each other, millin' all over the newspaper guys at the ringside, and pourin' in the doors which the coppers was fightin' to close. Out in the street some more thousands swarmed around waitin' to hear even some noise from inside and try to judge how the battle was goin' by that. The announcer called to the Kid again, got no action, and motioned to the time-keeper to get busy. That baby slams the gong for silence and—the Kid hears this bell, leaps off the stool, and was half-way across the ring, both hands workin', before we could grab him!
