and endin' Kid Roberts's hundred and fifty thousand bucks! The gong had saved Enright—he'd stayed the six rounds.
Well, it was a funeral in our corner as the Kid slowly slumped down on his stool and bent his battered head in his hands. They was nothin' for me to say—nothin' to do but pat the Kid on his quiverin' back and whisper to him like you do to a baby or your girl, as the handlers frantically worked over him. After all his struggles to pile up a roll, he ain't got a nickel. Havin' bet and lost his end of the purse, he's fightin' Enright for nothin' from now on. His old man has evidently been cleaned out by the bust and Dolores Brewster is now out of reach till he can climb back again.
"Listen, Kid!" I pants in his ear. "Stall it out with this guy till the fifteenth anyways, and maybe I can bull McManus into thinkin' we deliberately let Enright stay for the pictures—see? Maybe I can make him give us that twenty-five grand bonus he offered, and we'll have that anyways! Hang on to him till you're stronger and—"
The Kid looks up for the first time, like a guy just comin' out of ether. His glassy eyes swings around on the mob which is still poundin' their seats and howlin' for Enright to knock him dead.
"I'm not thinking how long I can stay," he says in a husky snarl, "I'm thinking how quick I can win! I was a fool and, like all fools, I've paid the price—lost everything—may lose my championship too. Stay fifteen rounds? I can't go two more rounds! I've punched myself out on this fellow—no condition—should have trained—knew it all—" His head swings up, and he
