with the fair Estelle. As I expected, if Estelle was a country maiden, then I'm Caruso, and a five-minute conversation convinced me that the Kid's swell front had led her innocent little mind astray. She was lookin' for a limousine any day and not no flivver, either, whereas and to wit the Kid actually couldn't buy her a inner tube.
As I had the boy's future in my hands, I told her that and also that no matter what he had led her to believe on the way home in the taxi, he was simply a second-rate prize fighter and I was his manager and if she didn't believe it, nothin' would please me better than to have her come up to Billy Morgan's some afternoon and see her gentleman friend work out with the other hams. She coldly shooed me away, but called me back at the door to ask the address of Billy Morgan's.
The other thing which kept me from dyin' of the sleepin' sickness was the Kid's sudden and determined ambition to protect his face at all costs from the end of a glove. No matter what come to pass, he swore he'd never leave a prize ring marked up. No cauliflower ears, busted beaks, split lips, or eyes in mournin' was gonna come to him. Outa the ring, nobody would ever know he was a fighter, because once he made his pile he expected to take up his place in society at about where he left off. Now this here stuff is O. K. in its way, but when a guy leaves himself wide open in the neighborhood of the belt in order to keep his beautiful features untouched, it's exceedin'ly dangerous. A well-placed clout to the body has won as many fights as a smash to the jaw ever did. Ask Corbett, he knows!
