"Oy!" gasps Hershel to Ike. "Vot a rough von I picked for myself tonight!"
"Sssh!" says Ike. "Don't let him kid you. They ain't none of 'em rough ven they're on the floor."
"Maybe," agrees Hershel. "But the thing is—how d'ye get 'em there?"
"Are you guys gonna fight or do a act?" asks the referee. "This is a ring, not no theayter!"
The next minute the panic was on!
The instant the bell rang, One-Feint Heehaw sprang from his corner and hit Hershel with a terrible blow right on the nose. The only witty retort Hershel could think of was to sink slowly to the canvas with a rather reproachful expression on his face. "Knock him dead, Heehaw!" howls the mob and a patron in back of us, slightly under the influence of Volstead antidote, added sleepily, "Go on, you tramps, knock each other out!" Hershel arose as the referee reached "seven" and his brother Ike immediately yelled, "Bore in, Hershel, bore in!" One-Feint Heehaw had other plans for Hershel, however, and drove him across the ring with a volley of punches that kept poor Hershel plenty busy trying to keep from being exterminated. In the midst of this furious mix-up, some comedian in the gallery convulsed the crowd by bawling. "Hey, Hershel, you're wanted on the phone!"
So far it was just a case of guffaws with nobody
