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 from the regions of his heel. The crowd groans in unison, but Ptomaine didn't—that punch caught him under the chin and sprawled him on the canvas, as cold as a step-mother's caress!

As our noble athalete's frenzied seconds drag his limp carcass to his corner and the attendance is behavin' like mental defectives, the bell rings!

What had happened was this; 64-Round McHook and the other brainless wonders handlin' Ptomaine hadn't signalled him at all, or at least, they hadn't meant to. In the general confusion they'd forgot all about the agreed upon signal and that Ptomaine couldn't hear with that cotton in his ears. So in their amazement at seein' him winnin' a fight, they'd throwed up their arms in delight! Ptomaine seen nothin' but arms in the air when he looked at 'em and thought the round was over. Well, it was, as far as he was concerned!

With the comedy part of the bill out of the way, the nervous, impatient crowd buzzed like the drone of two million bees with excitement over the dramatic part of the program—Kid Roberts of the United States vs. Guardsman Blue of the United Kingdom, for the heavyweight championship of the world! And what a two-man Gettysburg that was, with the result in doubt almost till the last punch!

The election returns was bein' announced from the ring between rounds and the very first thing we heard was that Dolores was bein' snowed under in the blueblooded districts by votes for the bozo she was runnin' against. A reporter motions for me to bend down