office to collect our four hundred fish. Two hundred wages and two hundred I win from the jovial match maker on a knockout. As I get to Kelly's corner they is about a dozen guys workin' over him, one of which is no less than my old pal, the match maker himself. He's givin' Kelly's manager a terrible bawlin' out and jabbin' a bottle of ammonia up under what's left of Kelly's nose. Kelly is layin' back against the ropes, both eyes closed—one of which the Kid attended to—dead to the world.
"Pay me!" I hollers at the match maker.
"Not yet, you fathead!" he snarls with a odd look, and then I see they have got one of Kelly's gloves off. In a flash the genial match maker pulls a penknife from his pocket, rips open a blade, and shoves the point up under the quick of Kelly's thumbnail. Kelly jumps half-ways off the chair with a yell of pain, and the crowd goes batty again. The lion-hearted iron man is comin' back! A nice, clean sport, hey?
When the gong clanged for the third session I had to fairly throw Kid Roberts into the center of the ring. He was sick of slaughterin' this baby, but the watchin' mob figured he was gettin' faint-hearted, and they yell for Kelly to let him fall. Roberts shakes his head disgustedly and ties into this totterin', half-blind wreck with the idea of gettin' it over as quick as possible. He forces Kelly to lead and takes a light left to the face; then he sets himself and floors the boiler maker with a long right swing. Up bounces this unhuman cave man only to crash down again from a volley of lefts and rights to the body. This time he took "nine" before
