hetty. "I expect you'd rather recite us some
poetry?" And at that one of Chester's chums snickers right out.
Sylvie flushes up like some one had slapped him on the wrist.

"Beg pardon," says he; "but I believe I will try it for a little
while," and he holds out his paws for me to slip on the gloves.

"Better shed the parlour clothes," says I. "You're liable to get 'em
dusty," which last tickles the audience a lot.

He didn't want to peel off even his Tuxedo; but jollies him into
lettin' go of it, and partin' with his collar and white tie and eye
glasses too. That was as far as he'd go, though.

Course, it was kind of a low down game to put up on anybody; but
Curlylocks wa'n't outclassed any in height, nor much in weight; and,
seein' as how he'd kind of laid himself open to something of the sort,
I didn't feel as bad as I might. All the time, Chester was tryin' to
keep the grin off his face, and his chums was most wearin' their elbows
out nudgin' each other.

"Now," says I, when I've got Curlylocks ready for the slaughter,
"what'll it be--two-minute rounds?"

"Quite satisfactory," says Sylvie; and Chetty nods.

"Then let 'er go!" says I, steppin' back.

One thing I've always coached Chester on, was openin' lively. It don't
make any difference whether the mitts are hard or soft, whether it's a
go to a finish or a private bout for fun, there's no sense in wastin'
the first sixty seconds in stirrin' up the air. The thing to do is to
bore in. And Chester didn't need any urgin'. He cuts loose with both
bunches, landin' a right on the ribs and pokin' the left into the
middle of Sylvie's map; so sudden that Mr. Poet heaves up a grunt way
from his socks.

"Ah, string it out, Chetty," says I. "String it out, so's it'll last
longer."

But he's like a hungry kid with a hokypoky sandwich,--he wants to take
it all at one bite. And maybe if I'd been as much gone on Angelica as
he was, and had been put on a siding for this moonlight po'try
business, I'd been just as anxious. So he wades in again with as fine
a set of half arm jolts as he has in stock.

By this time Sylvie has got his guard up proper, and is coverin'
himself almost as good as if he knew how. He does it a little awkward;
but somehow, Chetty couldn't seem to get through.

"Give him the cross hook!" sings out one of the boys.

Chester tries, but it didn't work. Then he springs another rush, and
they goes around like a couple of pinwheels, with