with right and left hooks, the Englishman had enough and dove into a clinch. They wrestled all over the ring, crashed into the ropes and slid along 'em, the Bandsman hangin' on for his life and the arm-weary Kid desperately tryin' to wriggle free. The referee tore 'em apart in our corner, and the Kid swiftly stuck his left in Shayne's face. The English champ shook his head, worked his lips for a instant, and then twisted his neck slightly as he spat out the tooth. The Kid's right had started with the workin' of the lips and it connected just as Shayne's jaw was swingin' back, addin' double force to the blow which lifted the Bandsman a good three inches off the floor, turned him half around, and brought him to the mat with a crash that shook the buildin', the first part to touch the canvas bein' his shoulder blades.
The referee could of counted a billion. At "ten" the body had scarcely settled. So that was that!
A half hour later we're comin' out of the dressin' room when a silk-hatted, evenin'-dressed, and familiar-lookin' gent busts into us. A close inspection reveals that it is no less than our old shipmate, Senator Brewster. He grabs the Kid, hugs him, waves a American flag, hugs me, jabs another flag into my coat lapel, and in a hoarse voice which he claims he contracted durin' the first round, tells Kid Roberts he has saved his country's honor, E Pluribus Unum and Nux Vomica, and that he personally can lick Bandsman Shayne, all his handlers, and the referee!
"But come on!" he winds up out of breath. "I have a car waiting outside, and we'll all go over to
