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 he ever seen, and never for a minute did his eyes leave the shifty, bone-crushin' Kennedy. When that guy stepped from the ring after the mêlée, without even his hair mussed, and the mob yellin' itself hoarse, I turned to Kid Roberts.

"Well," I says, "are you satisfied? There's one of the good men you wanna meet, and you seen him work to-night! You know this Williams is anything but a bum, yet he was duck soup for Kennedy. What chance would you have against a guy like that now?"

His answer was nothin'.

When we got back to the hotel the Kid broke a long silence. "Have you made a match for me yet?" he says.

"I expect to close to-morrow with Dave Kane, which has the Newark club," I says. "We'll get a eight-round preliminary with some pushover in a week, I guess."

"Guess again!" snaps the Kid. "My next bout will be with Al Kennedy."

"A good stiff headache powder will fix you right up," I says soothin'ly.

"Either you get me Kennedy or I get him myself," he says, "and that's final! If I beat him, I'll be in line for a match with the champion; if he beats me, I'm through. I watched every move he made to-night, and I'm confident I can take his measure. I'm big enough to whip any man I can hit, and one thing is certain—Kennedy will never stick that left in my face as he did with Williams. I haven't got a permanent mark to show that I'm a prize fighter, and I never will have, you can rest assured of that!"

"I could rest even more assured if you'd forget about fightin' Kennedy!" I says. "Now listen to me, son