and razzed every miss of the Kid's and cheered themselves hoarse at Enright's every lead. They shrieked and howled for Enright to muss the Kid up, murder him, knock him dead, goal the big stiff!
Now, all of this was new to the highly sensitive and proud-spirited Kid Roberts. It got under his skin, murdered his usual cool judgment and perfect timin'. He was carryin' at least twelve pounds excess baggage around his waist line, he was slow, and his anxiety to finish Enright swiftly and cop the heavy bet, added to the hostile attitude of the mob, made him careless and wild. The results of all this was that Enright took the first three rounds by a wide margin, usin' a wicked right hook to the face and poundin' the body with both hands at close quarters with deadly effect.
The Kid rushed out to end matters in the fourth round and unluckily run into a right smash to the head that drove him against the ropes, goofy. The mob went crazy, yellin' for Enright to finish him and, still dazed, the Kid begin tradin' wallops with one of the hardest hitters that ever stepped into a ring. It was easy to see that Enright carried the heaviest guns; and after he drove two murderous smashes to the heart, I yelled for the Kid to clinch and hang on till the bell. But Kid Roberts was champion, and with the idiotical pride that's licked many's the champ before him, he shook his head and stood toe to toe with Enright, givin' swing for swing and hook for hook. Again I bellered for the Kid to box Enright, which knew nothin', and not to slug with him, and this time he took my advice as his head grew clearer. He began stabbin' Enright's
