ward and caught him in his arms, easin' him gently to the floor.
"Next!" bawls the announcer.
The mob is already jostlin' out of the exits.
We had to lay over in this burg till two o'clock the next afternoon, and durin' breakfast in the Kid's private car we get to talkin' about Monsieur Hurricane Kenney, the Chickasha Bone Crusher. I had personally gave that baby a lot of thought, for at the time I was already keepin' a eye out for a possible successor to Roberts, which couldn't be moved a inch from his determination to quit the ring after a couple of fights as champion, win, lose, or draw. The fact that the Kid had disposed of Kenney with the greatest of ease the night before didn't bother me at all—Kid Roberts himself was a terrible bust in his first start.
Kenney had showed he possessed the first and most important requirement of a fighter, viz. and to wit, courage. Also, I had the Kid's word for it that he could hit. As he stood now he didn't know the difference between a left hook and the referee, but he could be taught that, and likewise to hit from his bulgin' shoulders instead of from his hips. Although he looked ten years older, he had give his age as twenty-four, another big help. Standin' a good three inches over six foot, he scaled 226, of which perhaps fifteen pounds was flabby and could be worked off, leavin' him a steelsinewed, giant fightin' machine with heart enough to make him a serious problem in a twenty-four foot ring for any man! As a matter of fact, I figured that about three months readyin' up and workin' out with my
