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 national flavor of a bout between the Arab and Kid Roberts would pack even Central Park to its furthest shrubbery—picture the publicity value of a properly built up fightin' sheik!

A cloudburst of cables descends on Thomas and his manager, which is boundin' around sweet old England, flattenin' the divin' Joe Becketts and the like as fast as they come along. It's triple easy to sell the battlin' and money lovin' Arabian the idea that he should see America first, particularly when a guarantee of $100,000 for a setto with Kid Roberts is served up pipin' hot with the courteous invitation. Then the boys which loves to keep the manly art—and their bank accounts—alive, comes cuddlin' up to me and Kid Roberts. For the paltry favor of pushin' this Jack Thomas loose from his reputed equilibrium we could have anything our little hearts desired—try and get it!

Should they of sit up all night plannin' ways and means, the fight promoters couldn't of approached the champion at a better time to do business. The Kid was as hot as a saxophone player and no mistake! The refusal of his wife to forget about politics had him fit to be chained to a post and the sport writers' printed remarks about him bein' a "burnt out, battle-scarred veteran" turned him red-headed. All his resolutions went by the board and in less than a week the fumin' Kid Roberts signs to cuff Jack Thomas for $300,000—win, lose, draw or what have you?

About this time the boxin' game was gave one of the biggest boosts it ever got since David stopped