his father, Dolores, and Senator Brewster sittin' in a ring-side box!
Even the newspaper guys is excited now, and the mob is jumpin' up and down yellin' "Fake!" when the champ slides away, deliberately measures the hypnotized Kid, and floors him with a right swing. The round had fifteen seconds to go, and I could of cheerfully murdered the Kid's old man then and there and taken the "chair" with pleasure! Gypped out of a world's championship! Over the moanin' of Dynamite Jackson I hear "nine!" from the referee and see the Kid strugglin' to his feet, reelin' about like a guy full of hooch. The sneerin' champ straightens him up with a left jab and then drops him again with another crashin' right. In the middle of the count which would of surely been the wind-up, the blessed bell rung.
We had to half carry the Kid to his chair, where he slumped over in a heap, his head saggin' forward on his neck like the same was broke. The referee walks over, takes a look, and gazes at me inquirin'ly. Before I can say anything, somebody grabs me by the shoulders and shoves me to one side, I hear familiar voices and see Senator Brewster and the Kid's old man, their blazin' white shirt fronts spattered with blood and water from the sponge Dynamite is wavin' at 'em, climbin' through the ropes. Like a flash, I sees a chance in a million to cop, so I shoved the Kid's dumbfounded handlers out of the ring. The old man is slappin' the Kid's face to bring him to. The Senator has emptied the water bucket over him and is now shovin' the ammonia bottle under his nose.
