"Come on, son!" the old man's half shoutin', half cryin'. "It was my fault, I should not have come here, I know. But, oh, my boy, I wanted to see you win. Come on, it's dad—can you hear me? It's dad, Kane boy—go on and kill that fellow! Son—son—wake up!"
The Kid's glazed eyes began to clear, and he sees his old man. Senator Brewster, a sight for the movies, is rubbin' him with alcohol, and tears, get that, tears, is streamin' down his face. The Kid shudders and begins straightenin' up. "Dad," he says, "I—"
"Don't talk!" pants the old man, rubbin' his wrists. "I'll explain everything later. I want to see you a champion! Come on, son—see, your color's coming back now. Go out and win! Remember in that Harvard game when you were knocked out in the first few minutes of play and insisted on staying and—oh, son, come on—"
"Why, of course!" smiles the Kid, dazedly. "I know this is all a nightmare, but even in a dream I can whip this fellow! I—"
"You got eight seconds to get your man off his stool!" grunts the referee. "Wanna throw it up?"
"Ring the chimes," barks the Kid, "I'll be there!" He turns to his old man: "Dad, I would never have lied to you, but—"
"Who's them old guys?" says a newspaper bird to another one which has left his telegraph operator and is in our corner, drinkin' in every word.
"Well," says the other guy, grinnin', "I'll be on the street with it first anyhow, so I don't mind tellin'
