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 cut features wasn't bad looking in a hick way. I'd guess his age as thirty-five, too old by about fifteen years to take up box fightin' as a trade. Boxin', boys and girls, is strictly a young man's game.

"Woof!" grins Dynamite Jackson to the Kid. "Sure is a tough baby comin' to visit us, boss. Looks like to me you're gonna be compelled to smack 'at boy down!"

It looked like to me, too, when this guy puts one mighty paw on the top rope, vaults into the ring with a thump that sent up clouds of dust from the canvas and begins removin' his coat and collar. The mob is with him to a man, and he's blushin' furiously, but game, as he begins rollin' up his sleeves without givin' the smilin' Kid as much as a look. Fin'ly he bends down and ties up a loose shoe lace, takes a couple of reefs in his belt, and faces us.

"Le's go!" he snarls at the Kid, and puts up his hands.

Whilst the crowd is still shriekin' I grabbed this dumb-bell's arm with both hands and explaiped to him that whilst his spirit was O. K., his costume was a trifle out of order for a boxin' bout, and that if he'd step into the dressin' room with the handlers everything would be jake. At this the man mountain balks. He claims that nothin' in the wide, wide world will induce him to remove his citizen's clothes and reveal his manly form to the multitude in a brief pair of trunks, as he is on hand to fight—not to go swimmin'. He's also got a kick to register with the regard to wearin' gloves, on the grounds that nobody could hurt each other with their hands all cushioned up, and he sneerin'ly inquires