Van Dyke: "Go on and read the rest of this idiotic—eh—this story. I'm anxious to hear the climax."
"Sure!" says Knockout Burns, waggin' a finger at Van Dyke. "Quit holdin' out on us. I don't think they's enough murders in it myself. In the, now, Births of the Nation, they was—"
I clamped both hands over his mouth and, chokin' back a howl, Van Dyke smoothes his hair, turns to the Kid and continues.
"Now," he says, "here's the big wow! You're fightin' the English champeen, and, as you remember from what has gone before, your life, honor, and the woman you love is at stake—see? One of your seconds has been bribed by the Secret Twelve to slip dope in your water bottle—see? All right, now you come up for the last round, suddenly dazed and groggy—see? The crowd is goin' cuckoo—you get floored twice—stagger around helplessly, about to be knocked cold—see? Then Miss Nice appears in your corner—there's a shot showin' her fightin' her way through the mob down the aisle—see? As the Englishman is about to knock you stiff, you see her—your face brightens up—Wam!—you knock the Englishman through the ropes—the Secret Twelve is beaten—the girl's father is saved from the chair—you win her and the champeenship of the world!"
Van Dyke stops, breathless, and Knockout Burns stirs in his chair.
"And then what?" he says.
Four guys grabbed our charmin' director, but not before he had throwed the telephone book at Knockout's head. "Take 'at big stiff outa here, or I'll cook
