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 dead, or vice and versa. The way I look at it, there's fifty thousand for us to split, besides the crack one of us will get at the title. D'ye wanna listen?"

Well, I never claimed to be perfect!

A hour or so later I was on the en route back to my inn, buried in what is known as thought. They was nothin' new in Dummy's "business proposition"—it's bein' pulled off every day and will be pulled off as long as the boob birth rate continues to run sixty to the hour. Unless the admirers of boxin' as a sport go over it with a vacuum cleaner toot sweet and get rid of all the Dummy Carney's which is killin' the game whereever they sit in it, prize fightin' is due to get the raspberry over here as sure as they's a snowflake at the North Pole!

Here was Dummy's layout:

Kid Roberts and Tiger Capato which had already fought one level draw, was to pull off another one in this New Orleans burlesque. Whilst the hippodrome lasted it would be a wow of a scrap—knockdowns, sarcastic conversations, nasty glances, and even a little gore would be squandered if necessary, but, come what may, it was to be a "draw." Everybody, includin' the referee, would see to that part of it! Me and Dummy was to meet by "accident" in the sportin' editor's office of the biggest New Orleans paper before the thing and give that unsuspectin' young gent ten thousand berries apiece to hold, each bettin' that his man would cop by a knockout. This would help murder suspicion, besides gettin' the fight plenty of advertisin'. Twenty thousand bucks may not sound like so much, but laid down on the