bone, the possibilities in the other guy's left—but still sets himself, steadies his tremblin' knees, and goes in to kill or get killed with a grin on his chalk-white face!
You might say a guy like that don't belong in the ring. Then neither did them kinda babies belong in the trenches; neither do they belong anywheres in life! Didn't we all kinda lick our dry and tremblin' lips a little shaky like in the zero hour over there? Ain't they a mob of us which ain't beyond bitin' our nails a bit whilst waitin' for any of life's Big Crashes to come? But, Sweet Mamma, when them temperamental boys does get under way! A flash at the dope-book on any sport, profession, trade, gift, art, science, or bad habit will show you what happens then!
I made one of them guys heavyweight champion of the world—how 'bout that?
After Kid Roberts had won his first professional fight by knockin' out Young Du Fresne in Sandusky, we have to lay aside the gloves for a spell on account of the Kid havin' busted them small bones in his left hand. Some weeks after that quarrel the Kid comes up one mornin' to our mutual room in the worst hotel in Sandusky, which is the equivalent to sayin' the worst hotel in the world. He holds up his invalid hand.
"All healed," he says, wavin' it at me. "I'm ready to box again. Pack up your stuff, we're going to New York!"
I walked over and examined his paw with the greatest of care. It still looked swollen and ugly to me.
"Better give it another week to set, Kid," I says, "If you bust it again, it's liable to tie us up for a
