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 and he looked it as he sneers out at the ravin' crowd. "Look at the damn beasts!" he grunts. "Listen to them. The blood lust! Look at that fellow's face." He pushes my head around to lamp a fat, putty-faced guy—collar gone, eyes poppin' from his head, and perspiration pourin' off him in streams, who's mouthin':

"The big bum's yellah; the nigger'll kill him!" over and over like a chant. "And I have to perform for that animal!" groans the Kid, writhin' in agony and talkin' half to himself now. "Damn that nigger—is this, then, the end after those two years of hell? Keep that fool away from my side with his oil, I—"

The bell rung.

Dynamite Jackson would of won then and there if he'd of known the damage he'd already done. But he didn't, for the Kid was grinnin' at him coldly and pokin' out his marvelous left. The dinge looked the picture of confidence and swung his head for a wise crack to his corner. I bet they've trained him out of doin' that again! As his bullet head flicked aside, Roberts whipped both arms over like twin snakes, and—woof—how it must of hurt him to straighten up! The left took Jackson on the chin, and as he sagged forward the right—oh, that sweet right!—thudded home over the heart and, brother, no man—not Jackson, not Samson—could of taken them two clean smashes and remained upright.

The Kid never looked back at him, but staggered over into my arms. Oh, sure, the rib was busted all right, and I'd paged a medico when he left his stool. We left Dynamite Jackson with the howlin' lunatics. He was out half a hour, and we nearly got pinched.