you. One of 'em's Senator Brewster of New York and the other's old J. A. Halliday—Kid Roberts' father—and they're handlin' him, that's all!"
"Wow!" yells the first guy, "I don't give a damn who wins this scrap. Sweet Cookie—what a story!"
The bell clangs, and I shove the Senator and the Kid's old man out of the ring just in time. The champion's handlers is yellin' over the ropes to the referee and pointin' to our corner, but he don't pay no attention to 'em. The champ advanced smilin'ly, when a human cyclone struck him in mid ring. It was the first punch that he didn't expect that licked him, because the Kid put everything he had left in that—a right swing to the jaw that dumped the champ with a crash that sent up showers of dust from underneath the padded canvas. He pulled himself up by the ropes at "eight," shakin' his head to clear it and pawin' weakly at the dancin' Kid in front of him.
"Take your time, Kid!" I bellered, and the boy heard me over the roar of the crowd, for he nodded and coolly measured the totterin' champ with a light left before floorin' him again with a right to the button. Again the champ floundered to his feet—they called him yellah afterward, but I seen the fight!—and again the fast tirin' Kid dropped him, this time usin' both hands for the job.
The champ got to his knees, slid back, and fin'ly got up at "nine," and now the Kid stepped back and hollered to the beaten champ's seconds to throw in the sponge and save their man from further punishment. They hesitated and, with a dyin' effort, the champ
