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 about him bein' gypped out of the title. For a minute I thought the enraged Kid Roberts would take a wallop at the white-faced referee and he did take a step toward him, but I jumped over the ropes and grabbed him. Some of the newspaper guys is at my heels and they're as burnt up as we are.

"That's positively the worst robbery I ever saw and I've been covering fights for fifteen years!" says the guy from the Whirl. "That's the kind of thing that kills boxing. Believe me, boys, I'll pan that decision every day in every way for the next six months!"

"You should be world's champion right now!" adds the Sphere sport editor to the boilin' Kid.

The boos and hisses outside the ropes drowns out whatever he might of answered. There's a young revolution goin' on and the coppers has got to escort Mr. Referee to safety. Two-thirds of the frothin' customers mills after us to the dressin' room, slappin' Kid Roberts on the back and assurin' us that we won from here to Liverpool. The Kid says nothin'. He's speechless with rage and disappointment.

When we get inside the room we're greeted by Ptomaine Joe, which had certainly put in one rough evenin' himself—knocked out by One-Jab McGoldberg and throwed out by the coppers. The battlin' chef looks the photograph of gloom, but he brightens a bit when he sees us.

"How did you make out?" he asks eagerly.

"Shut up!" I snarls. "I think you're a Jonah. I got a good mind to crate you back to that lumber camp, you big stiff! They tell us we lose on a foul!"