Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 19, 1924 — page 128: what you’re looking at

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

598 For a minute, I is fit to be tied and about ready to bust into a hot song and dance; but then my good sense comes to the front, and I sees this baby has the same spasms that the opera singers and actors has, and the only thing to do with him is to kid him out of the pipe-dream. ‘What you need,” I says gently, “‘is to take a little stroll with me. We'll walk down on Broadway and maybe drop into a chop house for a glass of milk.” “Sure,” he says, reaching for his hat, “I guess that’s what I need’ I’m kinda ner. vous.” “Listen,” I says as I tags after him, “You smack this Micky for a sack of salt, and Ill see that you gets an exhibition of your arts in the Metropolitan Gallery.” “Will you?” he asks, turning round on me and grabbing me by the arm. “Sure,” I says. “‘ This here prize fight stuff ain’t nothin’ but sausage in your life. All you needs is the money to bring you to the front.” Joe, he stops sudden-like and walks back into the room, pushing me aside the same as if | am a sheet in the wind. For a minute, I thinks I has lost the bet; but I rushes right in on his heels and starts to say something. “Mr. Bocker,” he says, fallin’ into a chair like a couple of tons of sawdust, Ill fight that feller. I ain’t goin’ out for no buttermilk. I guess I'll go to bed.” Then this iron locomotive begins to tear off his shoes, and with a smile, I bids him so long—and drifts out. VI. THE fight was a joke. The cold storage frost of the age. They was nothing to it but the crowd and the pile of dough which we took in. Micky Squires steps into the ring with the-sound of cheering, and Joe ambles in with the sounds of laughter. I has never heard so many wise-cracks in my life; they calls my boy everything from a ham sandwich to the ape which did the murders at the Rue Morgue. But Joe don’t pay a bit of attention to it. When we fastens on his gloves, he looks at me with a far-away grin and says: ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “I’m goin’ to fight this feller. I guess we might as well get it over with as soon as we can. Don’t forget that there exhibit for me, Mr. Bocker.” “Sure I won't,” I chuckles. “Them sight-seers thinks you is a joke. They don’t know you is comin’ into the Met in a couple of days with the arts of the ages.” Just before the gong of this here bout, the big event of the night and of the season, I gazes out over the throng with happy eyes. To make life easier for me, I has put up a wow of a bet on my boy, Joe; and lookin’ into the future of my bank book, I don’t care if I never engineer another fight. I knows it is a cinch and it is—so I ain’t goin’ to pull no trick stuff and tell you that the surprise finish is when Joe gets smacked for a golf hole. They starts off like wind-mills. Micky thinks it is a walk-away for him with all his science and hitting power. You know, them guys get like that after they has held the ice bags down for a couple of seasons, but some gent has once issued the funny remark that no matter how smart you thinks you is, they is still a lot of sour grapes left for you when you ain’t lookin’ for the side-show. Anyways, I had the time of my life. You said it! Wham! Now I hates to tell you how many times Joe is knocked down and how many times he comes up like a rubber ball with a dumb-bell grin on his face; I hates to tell you how many times Micky slapped him with no results besides some little blood and the howls of delight from the gang. The whole show is in a uproar of frenzy— it looks like the greatest fi€ht of the cen- tury, but it ain’t. Because Micky, after mauling Joe all over the ring, does just what [ knows he would—he smacks Joe with a wicked right alongside of the ear; they is a scream like a jungle cat being singed by a hot iron, Joe does his regular up-in-the-air stuff—and starts in. But he don’t knock Micky off’n his pins with the first one. Micky turns white as a sheet of paper and begins to run. Joe rushes him to the ropes; Micky goes into a clinch and Joe breaks him up the same as if Micky was made of egg shells. They works back toward the center of the canvas EComichbooks (CO)