the floor three or four times earnestly tryin' to knock the Kid for a row of washtubs, the pugeylistic cook staggers over and pants for me to unlace his gloves.
"I got all the sparrin' I can take," he gasps. "Boxin' this baby is like boxin' a buzz saw and I don't wish no more of him. 'At ain't all—I ain't goin' to fight this guy from the other camp neither!"
"You mean they have barred you?" asks the Kid, with interest. "Who is going to box him?"
"You are!" grins Ptomaine Joe. "I have just got a rush of brains to the head and barred myself. The pay-day fracas is supposed to be between the two best men on the river, and if you ain't the best man in this outfit, then I'm old Mother Hubbard!"
"But—" begins both me and the Kid.
"You can but if you want to, because you're the goat!" goes on the cook. "Either you fight this mackerel from Beaver Camp or you'll have to take on every guy in this one—all at once! If I was you, I'd fight him. You got more percentage with only one man to stop."
With that Ptomaine Joe goes out to spread the news, leavin' me and Kid Roberts starin' at each other thoughtfully.
Well, of course Ptomaine Joe had no idea that the Kid was a ex-heavyweight champion of the world, as he's down on the books merely as Kane Halliday, his civilian name. So, dumfounded at the Kid's surprisin' ability to hit and get away, the cook advertises him around the camp till we're practically forced into agree-
