But I'm disgusted with the Kid for tellin' this egg who he was, because now I know the cook will broadcast the news all over camp. Ptomaine Joe keeps eagerly chatterin' away to the smilin' Kid and winds up by swearin' he's goin' to quit his job and join us when we leave St. Thérèse as a combination sparrin' partner and chef. He knows just what a fighter should eat, bein' one himself, he says modestly, and all he wants in return for his valuable services is boxin' lessons from Kid Roberts. He wouldn't let go till I promised him we'd file his application, and I was more than half in earnest when I done it. We could do lots crazier things than take this guy with us, at that, I figure.
The minute I can make Ptomaine Joe quit admirin' Kid Roberts out loud, I take the enthusiastic cook outside all by himself and talk turkey to him. I make him swear on his cook book he won't tell nobody that the big, good-lookin' lumberjack known as Kane Halliday is really Kid Roberts, ex-world's heavyweight champ. The reason I done that was as simple as Ptomaine Joe himself. For all I know, the champ of the rival outfit may be a scrapper of no little ability. If by some terrible luck Kid Roberts should be flattened himself, why advertise that fact to fistiana when the Kid's tryin' to make a comeback? Ptomaine Joe gets a miraculous flash of intelligence and agrees with me, so the information about who the Kid really is fails to get out.
Kid Roberts knows nothin' about what I've done and he starts down to the battle ground at St. Thérèse on pay day, thinkin' his comin' adversus knows who he is
