straight in their seats. I can't remember when my throat was ever so dry before! They slid along the ropes, Hamilton fightin' with one arm free, diggin' his glove into the kidneys and short ribs. The referee, a assistant director, broke them on orders from Van Dyke, and the Kid put a slow left to the head, apologizin' when the heel of the glove scraped skin from Hamilton's ear. The ex-amateur champ's reply was a volley of lefts and rights that gave the Kid all he could do for a minute, and then Van Dyke shouts through the megaphone:
"Now, Roberts, you drop your hands and stagger away—you been doped, and here's where you get knocked down—that's good—that's fine! Hamilton, get ready to swing your right—don't watch the camera—you think you're on the verge of knockin' the champion out—that's right, try and look it! Now, Hamilton—cop him—on the chest will do; it'll look like a punch from here—ready now—all right drop your hands, Roberts, drop your—"
Kid Roberts obediently lowers his guard, and, quick as a flash, Hamilton pastes him—not on the chest, but square on the point of the jaw, and the Kid goes down like a log!
"Cut!" hollers Van Dyke. "That's great—wonderful! I'll give these birds a movie!"
Mutterin' apologies, Hamilton bends down and helps the Kid to his feet, whilst twelve assistants of Van Dyke grabs me and shoves me back out of the ring, which I had reached in one frenzied jump, hollerin' that nobody's allowed on the set whilst Van Dyke's shootin'. The crowd gives Hamilton a big hand as he walks to
