haulin' purposes, they're so slow and muscle-bound that the slighter boxer has no trouble at all steppin' around 'em and pastin' 'em pretty.
But to get back to the Bone Crusher. Inside of a half hour I have found out that readin' about what heavyweight champions got for a few minutes' work had murdered Joe Kenney's interest in the art of raisin' cows. Likewise, Joseph made no secret of the fact that he figured himself a topside slugger, able to hold his own with the best of 'em right now.
"Well, Joe," I says enthusiastically, when he got finished, "I'm for you and so's Kid Roberts. Get your hat on and we'll go down to a notary's public if they is one in this burg. I'll sign you up for three years and you can start workin' out with the Kid right away. With me as your manager and the champ as your teacher—why, say, inside of a year—"
"Draw in yore loop, old-timer!" butts in Joe, risin' and handin' me my hat. "I don't need no manager, and I ain't aimin' to take no job as a helper. I don't want to take advantage of yore champeen by joinin' up with his outfit, because I can lick the tar out of him right now! While yore here, I'm a-givin' yuh fair warnin'—the next time I run across yore man, I'm comin' asluggin' with both hands!"
A dumb-bell is a awful thing, hey?
The Kid and me split a laugh between us when I told him how the Chickasha Bone Crusher had received my generous offer. Then we forgot all about Monsieur Kenney.
The next stop was Tycopee, another duck-in and
