and also those of the other bozo; he gets angles and sees chances to cop quick that the battler can't see whilst he's desperately tryin' to land his haymaker or keep himself from kissin' the canvas. He dumps out his entire bag of tricks, collected in years of "bein' behind" scrappers—champs and tramps. He pulls stuff that just stops at bustin' what rules the game has and frequently even knocks over the traffic sign. For instance, a beller about the other cuckoo's gloves bein' too light and a demand that they be examined. He knows said gloves are O. K., but if he can get away with it, the ensuin' argument with the referee may hold up the fight for even three minutes, enough to give his battered scrapper a chance to recover. When his boy flops on the stool at the end of a hectic frame, watch him pour a continuous cool and unexcited stream of advice into the kid's crimson ear as he bends over him and kneads the quiverin' body muscles. Advice that's the result of expert sizin' up of what's happened in the round just fought: "Don't try to box with this guy, keep sloughin' him all the way. Pound his heart, he don't like 'em there!" or: "Keep this boob movin'; don't let him set—get me? Spar him off this frame. Make him miss and tire him out. We'll knock him dead a little while later. Don't slug with him till I tell you!" and so forth, till the bell sounds and the kid steps out again, freshened up, clear-headed and confident.
I said before that inexperienced seconds is a big handicap to a box fighter. Yet Kid Roberts, licked to a fare-thee-well, sprang from his stool and win a world's championship solely on the account of the two guys which was shakin' the towel in his corner
