does about tooth powder. They can tell the referee from a right cross, and they know that every time a bell rings whilst they are in the ring they are allowed to sit down for a minute and wonder why the other guy was allowed to come in with a hatchet; but the real fine points of their trade means zero to them. They are in there to take it, and take it they do with a set, silly grin on their puffed lips which has taken the heart outa many a better fighter who's slashed 'em to ribbons and punched his arms off tryin' to drop 'em for the long count.
Some of them human shock absorbers has held titles for a brief spell in the different divisions and has been very popular with the mob. Any fighter which will keep on gettin' up every time he kisses the canvas, in spite of the fact that both his eyes has observed the one o'clock closin' law, his nose is away outa line, and a ear is floppin' nonchalantly in the breeze, is bound to make a hit with the customers. He's prolongin' the thrill of the thing and givin' the crowd a gallop for its shekels. Their unanimous opinion, screamed at the top of their lungs, is that he's a terrible boob—but the sight of his gore has appealed to their "sportin'" instincts, and on the way home, in the cool of the evenin', they shake their heads admirin'ly and tell each other what a great scrapper he is at that! Jess Willard, for instance, made more friends by staggerin' blindly to his feet from the crimson-flecked mat, after each of his seven knockdowns in the first round by the jovial Jack Dempsey, than he did when he flattened Johnson for the championship of the world.
I'm always as nervous as a steam drill when I send
