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 right to the button, so he asks the Kid to work out with him for a few days. You'd think he was doin' Kid Roberts a great favor by the way he puts his request, but the Kid is itchin' for the feel of padded leather on his hands again and he jumps at the chance before I can butt in and stop him. Ptomaine Joe had a kind of synthetic gym fixed up in the back of the cook house, his only trainin' apparatus bein' a well-worn punchin' bag and two sets of be-draggled and tore eight-ounce gloves.

The first time Kid Roberts and Ptomaine Joe put on the gloves I told the Kid to be mighty careful and not take no unnecessary chances with this big kitchen mechanic, which outweighed him a good fifty pounds and stood four inches taller. Kid Roberts is so crazy to get steppin' that I don't know whether he even heard me or not. But I'm a mighty anxious young man till Ptomaine Joe starts to perform and I see just what he's got. I loathe accidents!

Well, all Ptomaine Joe had was his trunks. He didn't know a straight left from a fryin' pan, and, big as he was, Kid Roberts could of assassinated him had he a mind to. But he didn't—the Kid never beat up no sparrin' partners and was always gentle with these hams which don't know what it's all about, rely'n on his dazzlin' footwork to keep him away from their clumsy but dangerous returns.

They boxed three two-minute rounds by my watch and in all that time I doubt if Ptomaine Joe laid a glove on Kid Roberts, whose speed and science bewildered him. After Josephus has fell sprawlin' on