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 for you, old man, to have to bear the brunt of my beastly temper."

"That's all right, son," I grins, pattin' him on the back. "All real fighters is temperamental, whether they work with their head or their hands. By the way, speakin' of fightin' and the etc., d'ye know our contract run out last week and that right now they ain't a thing holdin' you to me if you want to cut loose? You're no fifty-dollar preliminary ham any more, Kid; you're the next world's heavyweight champion, with a possible half million iron men ready to fall into your pockets in two or three years. Also, you ain't no roughneck which don't know what it's all about; you got a college education, a business head, and somethin' I'll never have—class! If it come to it, you could make your own matches, look after your own affairs, and a few extry pennies will get you experienced handlers to swing a towel in your corner every time you start. All this would mean a savin' to you of half your earnin's—the half I get now. I want you to know just how you stand so's you can make your own choice, Kid, because you—well, you been different than any guy I ever handled: we been more like pals than manager and box fighter—and I got a right to enjoy the sensations of bein' square if I wanna."

The Kid come over and takin' both my hands in them bone crushers of his, presented me with a full-toothed smile.

"As long as I remain in the ring I want you to look after the business end of my affairs," he says.