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 the belt. No wrestlin' or trippin' allowed. Both you men understand all that?" finishes the referee.

"Sure—let's go!" I answers for the Kid, who's busy lookin' at Enright with everything but mercy in his cold gray eyes.

"Holy mackerel—Kid Roberts!" gasps Tiger Enright—his first remark—and the next thing is the bell.

Drove wild by the unexpected appearance of the Kid and the fear of what he will do to him, Tiger Enright dashed off his stool with a desperate rush, hopin' to beat the Kid down by the fury of his attack. He missed a straight left, connected with a torrid right to the heart and then immediately clinched, bangin' away with his free right hand at the Kid's mid-section. Enright was always a terrific body punisher which liked to bore in close and hammer away, and I yelled to Kid Roberts to keep him at long range.

The referee was slow in breakin' 'em, evidently lendin' a kind ear to the shrieks of Enright's friends to "let 'em alone!" On the break, Enright deliberately heeled Kid Roberts with the wrist of his glove, scrapin' some skin off his nose. At a fight club they'd of booed that big stiff for that dirty trick till they was hoarse, but here they cheered him!

Good and sore, Kid Roberts rocked Enright with a right and left to the head, easily duckin' his wild return. Enright then bulled his way in close again and took up his batterin' of the Kid's ribs where he left off before. Kid Roberts was takin' plenty punishment and couldn't seem to get away from it. Fin'ly the