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 swung for the Kid's unprotected face, missed and sprawled full length on the mat, face down.

As he started to drag himself to his feet, a pitiful sight, the towel came hurtlin' into the ring from the other side, and Kid Roberts was heavyweight champion of the world!

The Kid's old man was talkin' behind the barred doors of the dressin' room, whilst the mob pounded outside.

"When I went to South America, son," he says, "I arranged with the Pinkerton agency to keep tabs on you. I knew the pitfalls and temptations that faced you when—when I went bankrupt and was forced to set you loose on your own. They've been sending me press clippings about you almost since I went away—why, Kane, the object of my trip here was to see you win the championship! When you did not immediately enlighten me, I decided to let you think I was fooled so that you could work out your problem in your own way. I—"

"Then," gasps the Kid, "I've been writing to you that—a—and you have known I was a prize fighter since—"

"Since your first professional fight, son, two years ago," smiles the old man, pattin' his shoulder. "Ahem!" he says, his eyes twinklin', "J. A. Halliday, father of the world's heavyweight champion—well that's something!"