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 Bone Crusher's wet and strainin' back. "Fight fair—you big yellah bum!" I shrieked, and it was the Kid, with a tooth-barin' snarl that equaled Kenney's own which shoved me away with a free arm. Kenney, havin' exhausted every foul means of fightin'—fair enough to him, I guess, accordin' to the rules of what brawls he'd been in—decided to butt the Kid and as he lowered his head, Roberts straightened him up with a terrific left and right, danced away from the wall and broke the Bone Crusher's nose with a solid right smash.

The ensuin' gore covered them both, and I have no doubt that by this time Kenney had went clean crazy, for he grabbed at a chair and brung it down on the Kid's shoulders, crashin' him to the floor. Had I a gat, I would of cooked Monsieur Kenney then and there! I done the best I could, by shovin' out a foot and trippin' him as he rushed to give the prostrate Kid the boots.

They both got up at the same time and stood pantin', facin' each other—a sight for a movie director. Kenney's face was a shapeless mass from which features could only be picked by guess work.

The Kid, drenched with the Bone Crusher's gore, looked almost as bad, and they was a expression on his face I had seldom seen there when he was in a ring. Forced into this mill, Roberts had took more punishment than he ever had before in his life, and his ability to take it amazed even me. He'd been manhandled, fouled and hurt, and, shakin' his blond head, he plunged into Kenney like a lean, savage wolf against a ragin' bear. For a full minute now they stood toe to toe and slugged, and few wallops went wild, though none had the steam behind them they had at first.