trunks and four-ounce gloves. So that Kid Roberts, standin' there white and hard-faced, heard the thing that every champ from Jem Mace to Jack Dempsey has heard sooner or later from the fickle mob—the long-drawn-out, vicious "Booooo!" drownin' out the cheers of the hysterical.
And, listen—don't think that stuff don't hurt!
This was all new and very painful to the Kid. He'd been used to a thunder of cheers wherever he showed his face. The raspberry was a fruit he had never tasted before, and the darn thing went to his head. Anyways, he stood lookin' out at the roarin' Atlantic of faces for a minute, curled his lip like he was sayin' "You poor fatheads!" and then, walkin' to Enright's corner, picked up his bandaged hand and shook it, politely wishin' him luck. He done the same thing to McCabe. Neither of 'em give him a tumble.
Back beside me, the Kid sneers: "Did you hear those fools jeering me?"
I hunched my shoulders and settled in the seat. "What do you care?" I says. "Now—"
"I'll win my next fight with a punch!" he goes on, smilin' nastily. "Just to show them the difference between a champion and"—he nods at Enright and McCabe—"and those thick-skulled bruisers there!"
"Well, les' forget it now and watch this one," I says, as the handlers begin scramblin' out of the ring. But I was bothered! The Kid had never done no braggin' before. Just the opposite—he'd concede a cripple a chance with him till the thing was over. This stuff was all new. I gazed at him sidewise, and he was lollin' back in his seat watchin' Enright
