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 his defeat in the second a fluke. As I remarked before, there was nothin' new about this public-be-damned burglary; it's bein' done day in day out by such managers and such promoters as would frame their brothers for $1.50—and are doin' their best to send professional boxin' after the late Jack Barleycorn.

Before some enraged promoter, manager, or the etc can jump up and holler that I am not above takin' liberties with the truth, I will mention the case of a well-known Philadelphia lightweight which a short time ago caused a mild sensation by his quick knockouts of all and sundry which could be lured into the ring with him at his home town. This baby has a local followin' which would make Harding think he was a man without friends, and I can recall no better example of the facts I have set forth above than this same native son. So remarkable was this kid's record that out-of-town sport writers, which had only seen him fight by the via of a telegram from his manager after each of his sensational wins, begin mentionin' him as the logical guy to remove the crown from the lightweight champion.

Then his manager, carried away by the reputation he himself had built up for his meal ticket, matched him with a tough kid from New York—a case-hardened veteran which asked no favors and had stood off the best of 'em. They all looked alike to this boy. It made no difference to him as long as he got his pennies for goin' in and takin' it, or vice and versa. He'd heard all about this Philly marvel with the man-killin' kick in each hand, and it bothered him the same way they worry over the income tax in the almshouse. It took the experienced campaigner about four seconds flat to