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 the whole thing was as foul as the air in a sewer—knocked almost unconscious by that bump he got on the head when he slipped to the deck at the start, what kind of a chance did the Kid have? The skipper reached "five!" without a move from Kid Roberts, beyond the quiverin' of his muscles and the openin' of his eyes which stared up glassily at the sky. I looked wildly round and seen a fire bucket next to the white-faced, speechless Angela Yerkes—as out of place there as a tuxedo in Sing Sing. "Seven!" roars the captain. "The water—the water!" I yelled at Angela, pointin' to the bucket. That girl was no Dumb Dora! She got me like a flash and grabbin' up the fire bucket, drenched the prostrate champion with the water. The Kid blinked, was on one knee at "nine!" and clinched with the angrily protestin' mate before "ten!" left the captain's mouth. That ended round one, Allah be praised!

Led by the mate, the sailors rushed to the captain and claimed the fight on the account of Angela throwin' the water on Kid Roberts. The skipper heard 'em for a minute in cold silence. Then he pulled out a gun and Angela produced hers from her trusty handbag. Before that imposin' array of artillery and the skipper's stern promise that he'd perforate the lot of 'em if they didn't get back in line inside of a minute, these bullies quailed and the clangin' of the dishpan for round two sent 'em scurryin' back to the fight. In the confusion, Ptomaine Joe disappears somewheres and leaves me all alone.

The second and last round was worth a hundred