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 glares over at Enright's corner with his one good eye. "Mister Enright," he mutters, "you represent Fate! I've knocked you down a couple of times and you're still there—grinning at me. Well, here goes for my last try against you—there will only be one of us when the bell rings for the end of this—"

The gong cut him off.

Sensin' the end, the mob is standin' on their seats when the men come together. Enright missed a left swing, but connected with a right that bent the Kid's already tremblin' knees and laid his cheek open a good four inches—the ensuin' gore makin' it look much worse. This would of wound it up for a guy with less heart than the Kid, but it acted on the champ like a tonic. He was hurt, busted, and, for the first time durin' the muss—mad. Before, he'd only been anxious to end it quick to win his bet, now he wanted Enright's heart! He knew he only had one flurry, one flash left in his tired, achin' body, and he sailed in to kill or get killed. He rushed Enright to the ropes and, pinnin' him there, drove a smashin' left to the wind with a "plunk" that was heard in the last row.

A minute before the mob had been callin' the Kid a bum, now they are with him to a man because he's out in front. Such is life in the prize ring and—anything else! On the break, Enright swung a wild haymaker that landed high on the Kid's head, but that was the Killer's last effort. As he rushed in, both hands swingin' wildly, the Kid stepped to one side and hooked his right flush to the jaw, tumblin' Enright to the canvas. Enright's handlers yelled for him to stay down, but he shook his head and staggered to his feet. The