my hotel and—why, say, Dolores won't be able to speak above a whisper for a week! She—"
We're out on the street by this time, and the excited Sen. Brewster is shovin' a path through the half-crazy Americans to a big tourin' car which contains one terrible pretty girl, answerin' to the name of Dolores Brewster, in the rear seat. She puts everything she has on a smile, presents it to the dumfounded Kid.
"Dolores!" he whispers, turnin' to the old man. "Why—what—how—did—what is she doing here? You never brought her to see—"
"She gave me no peace until I did!" grins the happy old gent. "She insisted upon seeing you annihilate the English champion, and, why, in the second round she—"
"My God!" breathes the Kid, lookin' at her. "You saw that bestial exhibition?"
"I most certainly did, Kane," smiles Dolores, with the greatest of enthusiasm. "I'm so glad you won, but of course father and I knew you would. Why, we were sitting only a few yards from the—ah, ring, isn't it?—and father won some huge sum on you, and I didn't think it was brutal at all! Who and where do you fight to-morrow night, dear?"
To-morrow night. Sweet Papa, tie that!
