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 than a decided financial success. Outside of the laughs me and Ptomaine got watchin' some of these chumps tryin' to smack Kid Roberts down, the voyage was highly uneventful till we blew into Frisco with the fog one mornin'.

Then it was all different!

At the very first show, the front rows is filled with a fearful mob of rough and tough lookin' sailors. These guys wasn't the clean-cut, clean-livin', upstandin', square-shootin' gobs of the U. S. Navy—I only wished they had been! Wherever we run into them boys, we got along with 'em great, because Kid Roberts had boxed manys the exhibition for 'em and they thought the champ was the leopard's toothbrush. No—the hardy seafarers which awaited the Kid's appearance with noisy impatience that day was a lot of roughnecks off some tramp steamer, scum from the ends of the earth, what I mean!

Full of ferocious water-front hooch, they kept up a steady racket all durin' the vaudeville show. They kidded the acrobats, throwed pennies at the song and dance team and give the monologist the royal razzberry—only the nervous band managed to drown 'em out. To say I was worried is puttin' it much too mild; I seen nothin' ahead for us but a flock of grief!

When Kid Roberts is introduced, this choice collection of murderers out in front split the hearty applause of the rest of the audience with a volley of hoots and jeers.

"G'wan, ya big false alarm, you couldn't lick nobody!" "Yer a cheese champeen!" "I could whip