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 wins!" The referee hesitated, and whilst he's hesitatin', the timekeeper bangs the old cowbell for the second round.

"Get out of the ring, Joe!" pants Kid Roberts, pushin' past me. "This is one I don't want to win on a foul. I want to stop this fellow, and I've got enough left to do it—let's go!"

And they went. Not havin' fully recovered from the effects of that foul blow at the end of the first round, Kid Roberts was lucky to last out the second. He done it by continual clinchin', coverin' up, doggin' it, and kiddin' the suspicious Fleming out of rushin' him with a flurry of punches which might of ended it. Fleming had the greatest respect in the world for the Kid's right, and he was afraid Roberts was only pretendin' to be hurt to fool him into leavin' a openin'.

The result was a slow round which had the crowd whistlin' and stampin' their feet. Both men got the royal razzberry from the indignant throng when they trotted to their corners at the gong.

Kid Roberts took the third round by a good margin, usin' a straight left and a short right uppercut in close, under my instructions. His timin' had vastly improved and he cut Fleming's eye in this innin', makin' Fred look like a chump with a wicked jab which never stopped peckin' at the sore glim. When the Kid come to his corner, he complained that Fleming was so heavily greased with some oily substance that it was impossible to do anything with him in a clinch. I called the referee's attention to it, and, that guy, anx-