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 up his hat, gives himself a swift dollin' up before the mirror, and turns to the door.

"I'm going down and get a magazine," he says. "I'll be back shortly. You'd better file that wire at once—or I will!"

"But look here, you boob!" I hollers, jumpin' up. "We have—"

"Get me Kennedy!" he snaps, and slams the door.

I sit there lookin' at said door for the worst part of five minutes. Then I reached in my pocket and pulled out a little billet-doux I had not showed Kid Roberts. It was a answer to my telegram cancelin' the fight with Kennedy, and the words and music went like this:

I must of read that novel over about forty times. Then I got up, swore what is frequently called a round oath, kicked over a innocent waste-basket, went to the phone, and wired the Albion A. C. approval to the assassination in cold blood of the whitest guy which ever rubbed a shoe in rosin—i. e., Kid Roberts!

Down in the lobby I found everybody in the world, with the slight exception of Kid Roberts. Over to a side was one of them classy tea rooms where you really gotta drink tea now, unless you're a old customer which has been a steady patron for a few hours at the least. It's jammed as the subway at 6 p. m., with ladies which is supposed to be havin' a tough day shoppin'; tired business men which trusts they ain't recognized, but if they are what of it; young girls which should be goin'