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 was waitin' to hear "nine" before resumin' a hopeless argument. The heavy's name was Knockout Burns.

Boys and girls, you ain't no more surprised than I was. Any doubts I had with the regard to Young Hamilton's ability as a box fighter vanished in the first round of that short brawl. The ex-amateur champ made a monkey out of Burns—made this tough bird look absolutely silly. He glided around the enraged Knockout, pepperin' him with stingin' rights and lefts, bringin' him up gaspin' with vicious smashes to the heart and wind, feintin' him into futile knots, pickin' off his well-meant returns whilst they was still in the air, and then, goin' out to finish his man in the second round, he floored him twice before Van Dyke stopped it. Half a dozen guys was required to hold Burns, which raved, cussed, and begged to have the bout go on. He bellered that he wasn't hurt, that he was just gettin' warmed up, and that he always looked bad in the first couple of rounds on account of not bein' a boxer, but a slugger—all of which was true. But Van Dyke waved him away, threatenin' to bar him from the lot if he didn't get off the scene. However, when I caught the little director's eye, he looked to me to be tickled silly.

Kid Roberts was very sore when he heard about this muss and bawled out Knockout Burns to a farethee-well, promisin' to can him if he started anything with anybody else whilst we was there. Then the Kid apologized to Hamilton for Knockout's runnin' amuck, and Hamilton, no longer the laughin', good-natured kid, smiled faintly, murmured somethin' about bein'