"What's the matter?" sneers the referee. "They let 'em use tape in Ohio. This here's supposed to be a fight, not a one-step!"
I reached down and yanked up one of Kelly's hands before he had a idea of what it was all about. "See that white dust on top of the tape?" I yells. "Well, I know plaster of Paris when I see it, fellah, and we come from New York, not Crabapple Crossin'. This baby is figurin' on buryin' his hands in the water bucket, and that plaster will harden up in a minute till it'll be the same as if Kelly had a rock in each hand. Take 'em off or we don't fight!"
"Strip them bandages!" growls the referee to Kelly's handlers. "We got a dumb-bell from the State Boxin' Commission out in front." He wheels and glares at me. "That ain't gonna git you nothin', wise guy," he grunts. "Kelly'll make that ham of yours jump over the ropes!"
A fine, fair-minded referee, hey?
The announcer steps to the center of the ring and holds up his hand, immediately causin' the well-known deathly silence to fall upon the house except for such hot-blooded admirers of the manly art which can't control themselves now that the red slaughter is actually about to commence.
"Final star bout of the evenin'!" bawls this guy. "Ten-round exhibition—" he turns and points to our corner—"over here, Kid—"
"Kelly first! Kelly first!" roars the mob, dancin' up and down.
The Kid was half-way up from his stool. He give a short, jerky laugh and sit down again.
