arisin' and collapsin' over the ropes, both hands hangin' useless at his side. They is some yells to "Stop it!" but the referee slaps the Kid on the back and hollers: "Go on, fight, or I'll disqualify you—you big dough-hearted tramp!" The Kid shoulders him away, hesitates a minute, and a sponge comes hurtlin' into the ring at Kelly's feet. The fightin' boiler maker's one good eye observes it with a trace of annoyance, and with his last remainin' strength he kicks the sponge outa the ring and paws feebly in the general direction of the Kid. Roberts stepped back and made no attempt to hit him, and then Kelly's handlers swarm in and drag their man to his corner, where he flops like a sack of wheat, mumblin' that he never felt better and still weakly strugglin' to stand up and scrap.
The roarin' crowd mills into the ring, and the Kid walks over to Kelly's corner, shakes his hand, and tells him he's the gamest man he ever saw with a pair of boxin' gloves on. Kelly shoves a coupla handlers away and sticks up his pulpy face. "Yer a dom good man," he grunts, the one workin' eye glarin' at each and all, "but I'd have licked ye in another round. Ye niver would have stopped Paddy Kelly! I've taken mannys the worse batin' thin I got to-night," he adds proudly. "Why Young Horgan bruk three of me ribs and divvil a count I tuk!" He suddenly peers over the ropes. "Where's that blackguard which manages me and brung down on me head the disgrace of havin' a foight stopped that a Kelly was in?" he roars.
Special Delivery Kelly's pilot pushes forward, kinda nervous. "Tough luck, Paddy," he mutters. "But we
