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 sobbin' that she don't want her husband to be no pugeylist and that him chasin' all over the country after the circus is bustin' up her home. She claims if the Kid don't send the wanderin' Bone Crusher back to Chickasha, Kenney won't have no wife, ranch, or jack left.

"It might sound funny to you, Mister Kid," she winds up, with a quiverin' of lip that was sure fire on Roberts. "But it's a tragedy to me!"

Well, the Kid spent the best part of fifteen minutes tellin' her to go home and cheer up, leavin' everything else to us.

He says if Hurricane Kenney shows up in this burg he will have a long talk with him and do all he can to lay him off the art of box fightin'. He also adds that Kenney is the luckiest guy since Columbus to have discovered a wife like she, which brings a healthy blush and a pleasant smile to the rapidly brightenin' face of Mrs. K. Then I crammed into her hands a lot of balloons to be blowed up and other souvenirs of the circus for the kids, and we took her to the station in the Kid's bus, so's the Bone Crusher wouldn't run across her was he in our midst.

These frequent settos with the good-natured world's champion wasn't makin' Kenney no worse, and he has now advanced to the point where he's hittin' straight from the shoulder and the Kid is extended to keep him off without droppin' him this time. After the bout we go into the dressin' room off the ring to interview Kenney as advertised to his wife. As a success, the interview was a failure.

Kid Roberts, with a brotherly air advises the Chick-