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 the Kid hit up the red-eye whilst I had him, and after all he'd done he was entitled to one joy ride—hey?

We got down to the arena where the slaughter was staged and into the ring about ten that night without no trouble from the police. The crowd was no bigger than the population of Nebraska, only more mixed, and when they seen the Kid's somewhat battered appearance as he climbed shakily through the ropes there was quite a shout went up. The French champ looked twenty pounds heavier than the clean-muscled Kid, and was covered with fur like a grizzly. I walked right over to him and shoved through his handlers.

"Lafayette, we are here!" I remarks. "Them gunmen of yours failed to cook us this afternoon, and we aim to square up with you in the next couple of rounds. Don't try no tricks to-night, Frog, or—"

"Je ne comprends pas, monsieur!" he butts in.

"Try it and I'll murder you!" I says, and turns my attention to the Kid.

He needed it. He was shaky and used up from the afternoon's mêlée, disgusted with himself for lettin' the beautiful Dolores see him in that rough and tumble, and the hostile, foreign crowd was shootin' his nerves to pieces. He wanted the thing over with, and he glared across the ring at Henri Gournet till friend Henri begin lickin' his lips and turnin' his face the other way.

The French referee was as excited as a bride lookin' up time-tables for her first honeymoon trip, and he must of learned the English language from a ouija board, because all he knowed was "Yes" and "No." I hadn't the faintest idea of what his intructions was, and the next minute the party is on.