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 ger, but no knocker-out. Ptomaine was also as wild as a citizen of Borneo, so I'll just let you imagine what a pair like that would look like in the ring. McEinstein knew nothin' at all about boxin', or just twice as much as Ptomaine did, and this superior knowledge of the game enabled the Cyclone to put Ptomaine on the floor either twenty-six or fifty-four times. But he couldn't put him out! Ptomaine was in there to stay and that's what he done till the referee, tired of runnin' for his life every time either of these tramps let go, pushed Ptomaine to his corner bleedin' like a cut artery and raised McEirstein's glove. The mob heartily booed the Cyclone for bein' unable to stop Ptomaine and cheered Ptomaine lustily for his gameness.

When Ptomaine realized that he'd been deprived of a chance to get punished some more he acted like a maniac.

"What's the idea of stoppin' the fight?" he pants through swollen lips, "I ain't hurt no more than you are—this guy can't hit!"

"Outside!" says the referee. "This boy would of broke your neck in another round! He already done everything else to you. You're all full of blood and I'm sick of lookin' at you!"

"Can you beat 'at?" says Ptomaine to me as I ease him onto his stool. "What a break I got. They give me a referee which is too faint-hearted to stand the sight of a little blood and on account of 'at he stops the fracas just when I'm takin' a interest in matters!"

As we start up the aisle the crowd gives Ptomaine