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 him at short range with rights and lefts to the body that had the Kid flounderin' about the ring, punch drunk and weary before the openin' frame was half over. I don't think Kid Roberts landed four clean wallops durin' the entire session. He simply got off on the wrong foot and couldn't set himself thereafter. Comin' out of a clinch, the Bandsman deliberately butted my boy with his head, layin' his right cheek open and drenchin' him scarlet. The referee politely warned the Englishman in response to my frantic yellsof "Foul!" and, a few seconds ahead of the gong, Shayne connected with a long overhand right to the jaw that sprawled the Kid on his face in a neutral corner. He was on one knee, shakin' his head to clear it and gazin' at me for advice, when the referee had counted "eight" and the welcome bell rung.

They is a mild clappin' of hands around the ringside and some real old-fashioned yells from the galleries whilst we're hustlin' the Kid to his corner and workin' over him. I guess to everybody but me he looked a beaten man! His left eye was completely closed, his lips puffed and swollen, and the gash in his right cheek took five stitches to close. But his wind was still perfect, a cold vicious grin had took the place of the nervous twitchin' of his mouth, and as he shook the water I doused him with from his blond hair he grunted: "This fellow can hit, but I'll get him in the next round!"

Round two opened with the Kid dancin' lightly around the confident Bandsman and suddenly hookin' his right to the head and smashin' his left to the body. The Englishman looked surprised and backed to the