against him. Right then and there Tiger Enright come fearfully close to winnin' by a knockout. He suddenly straightened up and shot a terrible left hook to the heart. The Kid's gasp could be heard in Tasmania, and, as he staggered back, Enright plunged after him, held the Kid's head with his left glove, and shot three barbarous rights to the jaw. Kid Roberts sagged on his feet and another right, catchin' him fair under the chin on the Adam's apple—a horrible place to get hit!—dropped him to his knees.
Chokin' for breath, he looked around to me for advice while the referee's countin' arm is risin' and fallin' and the crowd is goin' crazy. I signaled the Kid to take "nine," which he done, and as he rose unsteadily to his feet the bell rung. Another round for Enright, and the odds jump to three to one on him. The mob from our camp is sullen and quiet, whilst the other guys is ravin' maniacs with joy.
Kid Roberts quickly responded to some scientific treatment in his corner and went out for the third round determined to flatten Enright in that frame or get flattened himself. There was a deep gash under his right eye and the left was beginnin' to close. Beyond a set of badly puffed lips, Enright was unmarked.
The first punch in this round was a left to the head landed by Enright, and after that he must of thought he had walked into a cloudburst of boxin' gloves! Startin' his usual rush, he tore in with both hands swingin', to be met by a murderous right to the body that slowed him to a walk. Feintin' for Enright's quiverin' mid-section again, Kid Roberts hooked his
