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 day—would you care to go along with your wife as—as—well, bodyguard and valet until we return, and then, why—by Gad, I have it, you can practise your culinary arts in my kitchen!"

"Hot towel!" bellers Ptomaine, knockin' me half ways across the room with a joyful slap on the shoulders. "See what I got by bein' the cat's spats with a skillet!"

We left him and walked into the next room. Not just manager and fighter, but pals through the best and the worst of it for manys the year. The lump in my throat wasn't no tonsillitis and the moisture in the Kid's eyes didn't come from no cold in the head, either!

"Why not go with us, Joe?" says Kid Roberts, after a minute's embarrassin' silence.

I figured I'd bust out weepin' if I didn't take the air right away. Believe me, I felt plenty low!

"I can't spare the time now, Kid," I says, grippin' his hand and forcin' a smile. "I'll see you when you get back. I been tipped on a middleweight in Atlanta which they claim is the next champ. I'm goin' to dash down and look the boy over, just for fun—I looked you over just for fun once, remember?"

Now you tell one!