awful shock to his pride." He nods to the paper. "Poor old pater—they never come back!"
Well, fin'ly the night comes when we shoulder our ways down a aisle of close-packed, yellin', fight-mad fans and climb through the ropes opposite Monsieur Jack Enright (which the sport writers has now christened "Killer" Enright). We continued right on over to his corner and examined his bandages, and Enright kept his eyes on the floor, scowlin' and very serious.
"Cheer up, it's all fun!" I says to him, after his goat. The sport writers laughed, and the telegraph instruments ticked that down into history.
"We come here to fight—not talk!" snarls Enright's manager.
"You'll get what you come for, guy!" I says. "And I have also told the sport writers all about that rabbit—punch of yours, Enright, so watch your step for the few minutes you'll be in here!"
And then we left him.
They was little time wasted in fussin' around. The champ got a fair hand when he was introduced—when it come Enright's turn they rocked the buildin' with cheers. The men posed for a couple of flashlights, and then—the bell.
The first round wasn't a minute old before the thickest dumb-bell in the abattoir knew that Kid Roberts had gone back eighty-seven miles and that Enright had the chance of his lifetime if he kept his head. The crowd was with the "Killer" almost to a man; they wanted to see a new champion made. They booed
