"Over here"—goes on the announcer, waggin' a finger at the other corner—"over here, Sandusky's favorite Irish-American heavyweight, which always gives the best they is in him—Special Delivery Kelly!"
Sweet Mamma!
They bang the chairs on the floor, hurl their hats in the air, shriek, whistle, pound their feet up and down, and seven guys gets hysterical and embraces each other.
The announcer favors us with a sympathetic grin.
"Over here," he says, noddin' to the Kid, "New York's promisin' young contender for the heavyweight champeenship—Kid Roberts!"
A few scattered handclaps for us.
I whisk the bath robe off the Kid, knead his stomach, and rub his eyes, whilst the dinge wiped him dry and kept whisperin': "Don't let him stall you, white boy—'at Special Delivery thing don't mean nuffin'!" Then he starts snappin' his fingers over to Kelly's corner. "We spots you fifty pounds and we takes you!" he shouts. "Was punches dollars you'll be Vanderbilt inside of one second! Ah shoots ten dollars we knocks you daid! Ah—"
The bell cuts him off, and we jump down under the ropes.
"Get this guy, Kid, and get him quick!" was my final instructions to the Kid as with a slap on the shoulder I turned him loose.
The thing hadn't gone a minute when I seen that Special Delivery Kelly's only idea was to stay the limit. The Kid, all the nervousness gone now that he was in there workin', felt his man out a bit and then proceeded to beat him from pillar to post—it wasn't no fight, it
