in the middle of lettin' forth a opinion on Russia or somethin' equally as enthrallin', whilst the reporters and camera men swooped down on the grinnin' Kid and bombarded him with foolish questions. I stood by beamin' and smirkin' like a mother watchin' her boy wonder recitin' the twelve o'clock ride of Paul Revere to the school board. Then come the jolt!
"Well, Kid," says a sharp-eyed little runt from the "Evenin' Moan," "what are you gonna do about Dynamite Jackson?"
"Prob'ly play him philately," I says, before the Kid can answer. "Who the—eh—who's Dynamite Johnson?"
"Not Johnson," says the reporter. "Jackson—Dynamite Jackson. He's a gentleman of color, and the color ain't white! Whilst you and your man-eater has been frolickin' around Europe, this big dinge has come up from nowheres and made a name for himself around New York. He flattened Tiger Anderson, Bull Kelly, Jim Sewell, and Young Scavelli in one round the each, and he smacked Soldier Martin for a row of shanties last night in just six frames! Whitey Burns, which has the Arena Club in Newark now, stands ready to offer you $55,000 for your end, win, lose, or draw for eight rounds, no decision. Why, say, the mob which will turn out to see this—"
"That's all blah!" I cuts him off. "We never fought no dinge, and we never will!"
"Now look here, fellah!" he snarls, shovin' his sharp little face up to me "this nigger should have his chance. If you duck him, I will personally roast your man to a fare-thee-well, beginnin' with to-morrow's
