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 Every now and then some newspaper guy, with more nerve than prospects, trains his typewriter on these dollar snatchers and pans the "return engagements" between the leadin' scrappers to a fare-thee-well. The promoters' alibi is that they have to rematch the headliners, because there is so few young men hither and you about the country which is talented enough with their hands to give the stars a battle. This, of course, is 36-carat bunk! In every class, from bantam to heavyweight, there is a half dozen earnest, clever, and bone-crushin' young sluggers which are automatically barred off the Big Time because they are just that! The champs don't wish no part of these babies—they're too tough and ambitious. Merciful Heavens, no—why, them poor boobs wanna fight!

These and other present-day conditions which I will take up at our next meetin' is what has stripped the prize ring of the sentimental glamour, sportsmanship, and fair play throwed around it by many of our otherwise unhysterical authors and playwrights. In days of old, when men was bold and the like, perhaps prize fightin' was a he-man's sport and may kave developed courage and biceps in the youth of the land. At any rate, the guys which traded wallops when John L. Sullivan was the name of a fighter at least made a honest attempt to earn their dough. They stood toe to toe for hours at a time and battled more for glory than anything else, and the winner usually knew he had been in a brawl by the time his handlers carried him outa the ring. There was no percentages, bonuses, or guarantees in them days. The purse was often in the neighborhood of a coupla hundred berries, and fre-