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 the cameras, Van Dyke is perched, directin' through a megaphone. Near by sits Nada Nice, chattin' with friends, ready to appear in the Kid's corner for the climax. She looked like she hadn't a care in the world—and prob'ly hadn't. All around the edge of the ring is the newspaper guys, tickled silly to come and get a real line on the champion's present condition; back of them the supers in dress suits and evenin' gowns, and behind them a bunch of society guys and their girl friends, invited with engraved cards by Van Dyke, and there out of curiosity to see a movie made. The supers is tryin' to act like society leaders, and the society leaders is tryin' to act like supers. Kid Roberts is grinnin' and chattin' with the newspaper guys, answerin' a fire of questions about his next fight and the like, but across the ring Hamilton is drawn and nervous, his eyes on the floor.

"Lights!" bellers Van Dyke, and a distinct hush fell over the mob. "Ready, camera—all right, Roberts, Hamilton—shoot!"

Clang!—the bell just like the real thing, and they're off.

Both men come to the center of the ring, touched gloves lightly, and begin sparrin', as they'd rehearsed over and over. Hamilton suddenly chopped his right to the head and then hooked the same glove to the jaw as the Kid started to back away. The champ boxed cautiously for a few seconds, landin' lightly with both hands, and Hamilton drove him against the ropes with a torrid left to the body. Lookin' surprised, Roberts clinched, and the wise newspaper guys begin to sit up