Argosy, Vol. 147, No. 1 — page 156: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

' aS - . yt — ‘ ex hs % ° wee: x - ie ee a, . -: | _D sspite the Kid having seeming- ry inducement to do his prettiest— ‘others the fact that Miss Gladys De- lookin’ like an extra-super-special- = produced at staggerin’ expense by combined beauty parlors of New York, mm al id Paris, is viewing the proceed- from a ringside chair—in spite of hing, apparently Mr. Caveney takes ch interest in the affair as I take in annual rainfall at Jackson’s Corners, ich is to say, in spite of everything I he disgusted mob of fight addicts can s of to call him—and believe me, we're at it—the Kid does anything but fight nothing but dog it. ior a fact, there’s more fight in two 2 ers of gtape juice than there is in Mr. eney’s entire frame. Anyway, he does ing ut cover up, and as an uninnocent stander I seem to grasp the idea that Mr. eney is chiefly concerned over the fact t ere is a bare possibility that one of two million boxin’ gloves which Battling hstein is hurlin’ at him may come in tact with his classical features. n d as a result the Battler has soon 9s, and the Kid’s only chance of win- z is by a knockout—which if you ask I got the same chance of knocking out fing as a toe dancer. Fine business— yy : = E ut then something happens. You un- stand, the Kid is a master hand at cov- ng up—I'll say he proved it—and though the tyro it might have looked as if the tler had hit the Kid with everything but e Marquis of Queensberry’s title, why, matter of fact, the Kid is only slightly worse for wear. And whether the Kid takes exception to - smark which Rothstein addresses to . or ¥ nether one of the Battler’s blows 3 the Kid out of his trance—well, I know—but, anyway, all of a sudden, ar of the Kid’s, which I believe I mentioned, goes glimmering, and— “<S > So « ag , i) NOLkE} ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. xp more points than Rockefeller has . in the pose made famous by the Statue of Liberty, and—well, to all intents and pur- poses, that’s that. But though all’s ended well, somehow T can’t seem to work up a whole lot of en- thusiasm over the Kid’s victory. You know what I mean. Well, we’re still in the dressing room, and the new champ has hardly got into his street clothes when he asks me for his end of the money. I think it’s kind of funny, because he’d never done it before; but I'd collected be- fore the show, and so I gave it to him. Then I take a long breath and tell him I want to see him at the office next morning at ten o’clock. ‘‘ What’s doing?” he asks. “ That depends,” I says. “ Maybe quite a lot, and then again maybe not so much. ’m no clairvoyant, but I certainly do wish I was. Anyway, I want you to be there.” He said he would. Well, next morning it lacks about twenty minutes of the zero hour, and I’m sittin’ there alone in the office waiting for the rest of the cast to show up, and maybe because of not eating much breakfast on account of somehow having no appetite, why, I am experiencing a kinda gone feeling in the mid-section, when in crashes Eddie Bige- low! “ Sweet Adeline!” I says. has happened?” Because Eddie is all shot—that’s plain to be seen. “Listen,” he says, gettin’ right to the point. “ There’s something I gotta tell you. About a year ago I’m doin’ a single im a three-a-day joint down South. Well, there’s a girl on the same bill that looks like Mary Pickford plus a million dollars, but her stuff is no good, and she ain’t get- ting by. She’s billed as Gladys Delano, the Contralto Queen, but her voice sounds more like a sort of cross between a barber- shop barytone and a bunch of static.” “ Gladys Delano!” I gasps. And right “ Now what then I get the idea that maybe it’s some-