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 tions ain't changed much since their time. Don't run away with the idea that I am puttin' in a rap for the ladies, because, personally, I think the fair and warmer sex is the rat's rubbers, I do for a fact. But the crack of Juvenal's about the gals bein' at the bottom of most disturbances reminds me of the disturbance started by little Désirée Collet, alias "The Widower's Mite." In a attempt to win herself Kane Halliday she caused considerable dispute—in fact, a dispute for the heavyweight championship of the world.

When me and Kid Roberts bound back to New York after our trip to the loggin' camp, me and my comin' gold mine makes the rounds of the newspaper offices and lets the sport writers in on our modest plans to recapture the world's heavyweight championship, then held by Jim Oliver. We don't want the champion yet. Kid Roberts has been away from the ring too long to step with the title holder after merely knockin' off this Tiger Enright, even if the Bengal was a tough egg and nobody's fool as a leather pusher.

It was no cinch to make Kid Roberts see into this, and don't think it was. The Kid was rarin' to go. He wanted his jack, his title, and his wife back, and a boy like Roberts is not easy to hold when he craves anything! How the so ever, like usually, my judgment prevailed—till along come Désirée Collet. Then the panic was on!

The newspaper guys was simply great to us and we couldn't of got more publicity if we'd of been a couple of six-headed elephants flyin' up Broadway at noon. The big, clean-cut, good-lookin' Kid, especially at home