Maybe you remember him? He used to
fight at the feather-weight limit some time back. Called himself Young
O'Brien. He was a pretty good scrapper in his time, and now he's up
here looking after some gent's prize dogs.
"Well, I goes to him and borrows his kid. He's a scrappy sort of kid at
that and weighs ten pounds more than his nibs; but I reckoned he'd have
to do, and I thought I could stay around and part 'em if they got to
mixing it."
Mamie uttered an indignant exclamation, but Kirk's eyes were gleaming
proudly.
"Well?" he said.
Steve swallowed lobster and resumed.
"Well, you know how it is. You meet a guy who's been in the same line
of business as yourself and you find you've got a heap to talk about.
I'd never happened across the gink Whiting, but I knew of him, and, of
course, he'd heard of me, and we got to discussing things. I seen him
lose on a foul to Tommy King in the eighteenth round out in Los
Angeles, and that kept us busy talking, him having it that he hadn't
gone within a mile of fouling Tommy and me saying I'd been in a
ring-seat and had the goods on him same as if I'd taken a snap-shot.
Well, we was both getting pretty hot under the collar about it when
suddenly there's the blazes of a noise behind us, and there's the two
kids scrapping all over the lot. The Whiting kid had started it, mind
you, and him ten pounds heavier than Bill, and tough, too.
Pages:
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337