swung a roundhouse left, square on the Kid's unprotected face! Roberts staggered back, recovered, and put both gloves to his nose. We all rushed over, the sparrin' partner chokin' apologies and scared stiff and some of the other handlers tryin' to stop the flow of gore. Whilst waitin' for the medico, I felt the Kid's nose with a experienced and eager hand—they was no doubt about it, it was broke bad and would carry a dent as long as he lived. In the excitement the fair Estelle beat it.
We was sittin' in the room at the hotel some hours later when the phone rung. A cold female voice asks for "Mister Roberts." The conversation wasn't long and consisted on the Kid's part of the followin':
"Hello . . . yes . . ." (a long silence). "But, my dear girl . . ." (another and longer silence). "Very well, Miss Van Horn . . . good-by!"
With reference to nobody in particular, the Kid bursts out as he slams up the receiver:
"She saw me in the gym—she called me a pork-and-beaner, whatever that may be. She— Good Heavens, her language!—and I thought— Say, can you tell me why I ever thought that girl was— Why, she fooled me completely."
"They run that way sometimes," I says carelessly. "Now, that beak of yours will be O. K. in—"
He's lookin' in the mirror.
"If I hadn't been so careful of my nose, I would have stepped into Kennedy and beaten him sure!" he murmurs, with a half smile. "But I got knocked out saving it and then a sparring partner breaks it in training. A jest of the gods! Well, it's done and in-
