Kid's busted old man. Business in our line was very dull in the land the Marines made famous, for the reason that we have trimmed all the good heavies and the Kid will not under no circumstances frame a scrap or fight set-ups.
"It's more than eight weeks since I fought Capato," the Kid growls, pacin' up and down the room like a irritated panther. "In that time we haven't earned a penny, and I haven't drawn on a glove. I'm getting stale through lack of work and—"
"Just a minute," I says soothin'ly. "It's your own fault we can't get no work. If you'd of saved up some of them boloneys for return dates, instead of bouncin' 'em all in a couple of rounds, we could go back over the circuit like the rest of 'em does and clean up again. Now, the only way we can get a fight—"
"Is to join the Polish army, I suppose!" butts in the Kid bitterly. "Well, if—"
"No!" I hollers, jumpin' up. "Not Poland, but England! France and England, where the set-ups runs wild and where any guy which gets through two fights without bein' knocked kickin' is made champion of Europe in whatever class he's in. Why, you'll be a riot over there, Kid; I must of been crazy not to of thought of it before!"
"Well, don't talk about it; let's go!" snarls the Kid, nervously reachin' for his hat. "I'm going out and walk off some of this depression, and incidentally I'll find out about passports and accommodations—it will give me something to do. This infernal inactivity is driving me mad and it must be damned unpleasant
