"Father has more money than he knows what to do with," she butts in, layin' a vampish hand on his arm.
"He is very fortunate," remarks the Kid kinda chilly, as he straightened up. "But your father's money has nothing whatever to do with me. No, dear, if this were a book or a moving picture, I would probably renounce my present profession in a highly melodramatic manner, and then it would be discovered that I am really the heir to the throne of Alluvia, or something like that, in disguise. But being sordid reality, I'm afraid I'll have to play my hand out to the finish. There is too much at stake for me to give up now!"
Dolores played her ace. She give vent to a sigh and presented the Kid with a glance, which if it made me dizzy, what do you figure it must of done to him?
"Even for me?" she murmurs.
"Even for you!" answers the Kid, hoarse but firm.
Dolores Brewster gathered up her cloak and drifted into the cabin without as much as a glance or a answer to the Kid's dazed exclamation.
So that was all settled!
Three weeks after the above came to the pass, me and Kid Roberts is located at Hampstead Heath, a burg on the hoopskirts of dear old London, trainin' for a scheduled twenty-round muss with Bandsman Shayne, heavyweight assault and battery champion of the United (ha, ha!) Kingdom of Ireland and Great Britain.
I signed articles for the entertainment whilst the
