from the little timber town, but what they lacked in numbers they made up in noise. Believe me, they was one tough-lookin' mob too, with their faded mackinaws and corduroy jackets buttoned around their necks, pants tucked into boots or leggins and so much matted hair on their faces they all looked like fur-bearin' animals to me. Plenty of vicious-lookin' long-bladed knives was stuck in belts, lots of 'em leaned on them murderous woodmen's axes, and here and there the butt of a gat showed in a hip pocket bulge. A ugly bunch, primed for anything and worked to fever heat by smuggled bootleg and the excitement of the comin' battle.
Kid Roberts gets up and smilin'ly bows, wavin' his gloved hands over his head in response to the roar of greetin' from our outfit, and another roar goes up from the other camp when their man is boosted into the ring on the far side. Then things move fast. The referee, who's telegraph operator and railroad agent at St. Thérèse, steps to the center of the ring and holds up his hands for silence. He got immediate service.
"Kane Halliday, champeen of St. Thérèse, weight one hundred and ninety-one and a half pounds," he bawls, very importantly, pointin' to the Kid. "On the other side, Steve Greenly, champeen of Beaver Camp, weight two hundred pounds, even. Three-minute rounds with one-minute rest between, the fight to go to a finish for the champeenship of the river. If there is any attempt to rush the ring by friends of either man, I'll stop the fight and call it no contest. Likewise, before any of you lads out there gets too abusive,
