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 quently the guy which remained upright at the finish took it all!

Sweet Mamma—what a difference now!

The modern boss scrapper picks his opponents as carefully as Ziegfeld picks a chorus. He gets a guaranteed sum somewheres in the thousands for a six-, eight-, or ten-round muss with some set-up which must take what he's handed for his end, no matter if by some miracle he knocks the star kickin'. Then again, if the star happens to be a big local drawin' card, his victim is at times warned that if he trims his man he don't get no more work at that club. The result is that the poor boob goes in against one of them $5,000 beauties, finds the mob all with the native son, and yellin' for his own immediate assassination; knows that if he wins, draws, or loses his pay will be the same; remembers that if he gets too rough he will lose a lotta future bouts at the club, an therefore takes a lickin', boostin' the star's reputation and, likewise, the star's price.

But occasionally along comes a handsome city chap which upsets all the plans of the gentlemanly promoters and the athletic young business men which calls themselves boxers. A tough, ambitious baby will crop up which, besides havin' a kick in each hand, has also got a few ounces of brains in his head and a manager which is not simply a addin' machine. A combination like that is carbolic acid to the boxin' trust. Sooner or later they gotta be taken in and gave a crack at the big money. Then they either peg along, satisfied with the soft sugar and takin' their turns at boxin' the other members of the lodge, or they go in business for themselves when they get to the top. That's what me and