"Come a-shootin'!" he says.
I asked him if he was in the habit of drinkin' and smokin' as trainin' exercises, and, frownin', he says he was in the habit of doin' what he pleased, so I made the greatest haste to remark that whilst it was none of my business, he was ruinin' his wind with the smokes and his nerves with the hooch and that most successful scrappers laid off both.
With a grin, Kenney reaches lazily over and picks up a unusually thick poker from the fireplace. Placin' his hands about a foot apart on it, he bent it double like I'd fold a sheet of paper. Then he bent it back again and tossed it clatterin' on the floor.
I'd never seen the stunt done before with such little effort. They was no veins standin' out like whipcords, as the sayin' is, on Kenney's 20-inch neck, nor did beads of perspiration drop off his brow. He done the thing as carelessly as he'd break a matchstick. The Bone Crusher didn't have to do that to show me his muscle. A look at him and you'd believe he'd moved Grant's Tomb six inches with his shoulders! But strength alone, boys and girls, is not enough to become a title holder in fistiana.
For the example, every good wrestler has had ambitions to become a boxin' champ at one time or another in his career and a great many of 'em have laced on a pair of gloves and stepped into a ring only to be made look foolish by some third-rate pug. Even Frank Gotch, the daddy of 'em all, once had this experience. Professional strong men, weight lifters, and the like are flops as a rule when they turn to the ring. Their sinews havin' been developed for show or pushin' and
