everything to watch. I said a silent prayer and then yelled to Billy Morgan to stop it, but the big stiff shrugged his shoulders and waved me away. Somebody dropped a pin and I heard it hit the floor.
Then Al Kennedy walks over to the Kid, which don't give way a inch. Al looks up and down coolly and turns to Dummy, his manager: "Where d'ye get that stuff?" he growls. "What's the idea of askin' me to slough this guy for yuh, hey? If you want him beat up, get some of them bums which is hangin' round here lookin' for exercise—what d'ye think I am, a roughneck? I'll box him for pennies—sure, but them gang-fight days is over, get that?" He holds up the glove with the loose string under the Kid's nose. "Here, kid," he says in a offhand way, "tie that up for me, will yuh?"
Kid Roberts dropped his half-raised hands and give a short laugh.
"Certainly!" he says politely, and damned if he didn't, whilst Dummy let forth a howl and collapsed in a chair.
A week after that me and Kid Roberts traveled over to the Never-Say-Dry country of New Jersey and seen Al Kennedy put Young Williams out in six rounds. The fight was a dude whilst it lasted, both men bein' seasoned campaigners and both in line for a crack at the title. Kennedy had everything, includin' a nasty straight left which Williams was unable to keep his face off of, and Kennedy used that to wear his man down till fin'ly a well-timed right cross to the button gave Williams a one-way ticket to dreamland.
The Kid watched the brawl like it was the first one
