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 by his nerves as he stands in his corner waitin' for the bell. Without a peer as a rough-and-tumble mauler, Ptomaine Joe was a fish out of water in a ring—with rules, bells, gloves, and a referee to prevent gougin' and knifin', Once the gong rang, Ptomaine rushed wildly and landed the first blow, a glancin' left to the head, but took a terrible right uppercut in return as they come to close quarters. That's the punch which licked him! It shook Ptomaine from stem to stern, and the mob was quick to see he was in distress, rockin' the clubhouse with howls. Tornado Tate had found out all he wished to about his man and he started drivin' Ptomaine all over the ring. Another right uppercut sprawled the ex-chef on the floor, but he jumped up without waitin' for the count and gamely charged at Tate, only to go down again on all fours from a fearful right and left to the stomach. He was up again at "nine," swayin' dizzily and practically out on his feet. I reached for the sponge, but before I could toss it in Tate's carefully timed right caught Ptomaine flush on the chin. He went down like a log and was counted out, just one minute after the start of the battle. This made my glass-jawed fighter's record to date read: knocked out an even twice in exactly two starts. Not so good!

Now that the cheaper help had been quickly disposed of, the big crowd settled back comfortably to scan the twelve-round struggle between Kid Roberts and Battlin' Miller, either one a better man than the fadin' heavyweight champ in the firm opinion of half the mob at the ringside. Miller was first to enter the ring and