The roar of the mob hung fire for a minute, and then, as they took in the situation, a yell of laughs comes boomin' across the ring till it seemed to rattle the buildin'. Like the Kid, the crowd was on edge, nervous—almost hysterical—and the Kid's mistakin' that bell for the beginnin' of the fight busted the tension. But the effect of that tornado of hee-haws on Kid Roberts was as sudden as it was remarkable. He turned and faced the mob, pale as two dollars worth of skimmed milk, and from the look he give 'em I thought for a second he was gonna jump over the ropes and go to the mat with the entire attendance! His lips curled away from his flashin' white teeth in a snarl like a bad-tempered wolf's, and the steady glare in his eye caused friend announcer, which he wasn't even lookin' at, to step hurriedly aside. In a instant I seen one chance in a million to crab Dummy's frame-up and crab it to the royal families taste. The way he was geared up then, Kid Roberts could of licked the League of Nations, and my job was to keep him that way for two more minutes! Keep him tight strung to that cold, blood-cravin', murderin' rage before he could let down, think of Capato's "wife," or—
I grabbed his arm, let out one of them high-pitched, nerve-gratin' guffaws, holdin' my side with my free hand. "Why, you big boob!" I shrieks. "D'ye hear them babies givin' you the laugh? The thing's gonna be a farce! Ha, ha, ha, ha! My Gawd, I've handled some boneheads, but you win the garage! Sweet Mamma—you won't have to knock Capato dead; he'll die laughin'!"
