Lately you'll find a lot of women at prize fights. Some of 'em covers their white faces with their hands and devotes themselves to wishin' it was over, and some of 'em stamps their feet on the floor as excited as the hoarsely bellerin' stevedore on one side of 'em and the wheezin' corporation lawyer on the other, and hollers shrilly: "Knock him out! Knock him out!"
I ain't got the slightest intention of gettin' mixed up in no argument as to whether it's proper or no for a member of the adjoinin' sex to be a part of the yowlin', cussin' mob which watches one guy endeavor to knock another one stiff for pennies. In the first place, anything any Jane does is O. K. with me. In the second place, I know nothin' what the so ever about the girls except I am practically certain that if it wasn't for them we'd all be throwin' coconuts at each other in the tops of the trees to-day. But to get back to the original subject, the bloodiest prize fight I ever seen since I been pilotin' leather pushers was deliberately staged by a woman, because she hated the game. Sounds odd, hey? Well, listen!
After Kid Roberts, with me at the wheel, had win the world's heavyweight title, we tell the ambitious
