I found more difficulty with my Adam's apple for the space of a second than I have had in years. Likewise, I seemed to have got somethin' in my eyes.
"Kid," I says, fin'ly, "I—I—you big stiff!"
And grabbin' one of his shoes from the floor, I heaved it at him for the purposes of changin' the subject and—eh—gettin' control. . . .
Well, a couple of days after, me and the Kid is sittin' in the rooms at the hotel, when the desk phones up to find out will we see some reporters. As counterfeiters, yeggs, murderers, and the like is about the only human bein's in this wide, wide world which is tellin' the truth when they claim they don't like publicity, I says to send the boys right up. When I opened the door to let 'em in a few minutes later, I couldn't blame the Kid for givin' vent to a gasp of surprise. It looked more like we was going to be raided instead of interviewed! They was about fifteen young men filed into the room, and although I knew all the sport writers of the New York papers, these babies was strangers to me. A tall thin one coughs and says to me:
"Eh—I'm with the 'Post'—eh—did you give an interview to the Newark 'Evening Yell' the other day?"
"Sure!" I grins. "I told the story of the Kid's life to a young lady by the name of Miss Stillwell, which wanted the same for the sportin' page."
"For the sporting page, eh?" says the reporter, lookin' around at the other guys, some of which laughs out loud. "Clever girl!" he goes on, facin' me again. "She's losing time in Newark—that's a cinch!"
The Kid frowns, and I took a step toward this guy.
"Mister Roberts—eh—pardon me, Mister Halliday
