The night of the fight with Griggs we rolled up to the clubhouse bright and early in our Snappy Six, with the chauffeur, door tender, valet, and nickle-plated hood. Over the radiator is a large sign marked, "Kid Roberts, Next Heavyweight Champion of the World." We stop outside the main entrance for a few minutes, and as the Kid is masked and wearin' evenin' clothes we attract no more attention than a snowfall would in Hades. We occupy a ringside box durin' the preliminaries, and before each scrap the Kid climbed into the ring, shook hands with each fighter and wished 'em many happy returns—also somethin' new. I kept hittin' the mob in the face with the Kid all the time we was there till fin'ly we was arousin' as much interest as the boys in the ring. We left for the dressin' room durin' the semifinal bout, followed by cheers that would of tickled Dempsey. Did that crowd want to see Kid Roberts fight? You tell 'em!
But I wasn't through yet!
The Kid comes into the ring wearin', besides the mask, a blue silk bath robe, ornamented with pale pink peacocks and purple flowers. On top of his regular handlers and me they is the valet with a tray of hot chocolate, a silver water bottle, smellin' salts, and the etc., and a pile of clean white towels. He is helped through the ropes like he was a 1542 Chinese vase, the stool is carefully dusted off, and he sits down, takes a cup of chocolate from the valet, a novel from the pocket of his bath robe, and without a glance at the other corner, begins to read!
Sweet Cookie!
