own heart broke by the Kid's superhuman exhibition of gameness, seemed unable to land the finishin' blow—the clean knockout which would of wound it up mercifully. I cursed that guy for a tramp till the referee warned me, as he cut and slashed wildly at the swayin', blinded champ, every blow that socked against that boy bein' a knife in my own poundin' heart.
Then, in the middle of the eleventh round, I couldn't stand it no longer! Kid Roberts, holdin' himself up with one arm on the ropes was feebly tryin' to protect himself with the other from a hurricane of rights and lefts to the head. Pierce was too excited at the prospects of a knockout to stand off and measure him, but was batterin' him to pieces with short, choppy blows. With tears that I ain't ashamed of streamin' down my face, I jumped through the ropes, pushed past the referee in between 'em and caught the Kid in my arms, shovin' my face into Pierce's and yellin' in a voice that I didn't recognize: "Leave him alone, you big stiff. You'll make a fine champ, you will! You're a hell of a finisher—you can't knock a dyin' man stiff!"
Then half the crowd was in the ring with me, and Knockout Pierce stood alone, whilst the mob fought to shake the hand of the loser.
For many's the week afterward the sport writers panned me to a fare-thee-well, arguin' that I lost Kid Roberts the title by committin' the foul of jumpin' into the ring. They claimed the Kid might of come back—that with his heart he always had a chance while he was in there. Well, boys and girls, that's what I funped in for. I wanted them babies to think just that! It was about the last thing I could do for Kid Roberts,
