Some of dese blokes w'at wants ter be fiters gives me a pane in me slats, an' I t'ink dey ought ter be in de surkus, or else wearin' blue and pink wrappers, wid lace around de neck.

If dere's any fite in a guy it's goin' ter cum out just like de measles, or any old t'ing he has in his system.

Look 'em over an' see w'at you t'ink of dem.

An' anudder t'ing. As soon as dey wins a cupple of fites an' gits dere mug in de papers, dey wants ter go on de stage an' look pritty, an' be among de actorines all de time.

How kin a knuckle-pusher be an actor?

Nix, cul, nothin' doin'.

He's either goin' ter be a good actor an' a bum fiter, or a good fiter an' a bum Willie boy w'ere de footlites grow.

I say, if yer got a good graft, stick to it, an' don't try an' butt in on sumbody elses puddin'.

But I wuz talkin' about trainin'.

I ain't never told how we used ter train, an' we didn't wear no fancy bat' robes in de ring in doze days, an' we didn't have no trainin' quarters either, unless yer kin call de back room of a mixed-ale joint trainin' quarters, an' w'en we wanted ter take on weight we got two beef stews, an' w'en we wanted ter take it off we had a t'ree-cent Turkish bat'.

But I'll tell you w'at happened at de Reserwation last nite.

Here's de way it cum off:

“Say, Chuck, I hear you ust to be a prize-fighter,” said a wise guy with one of them bum wise winks.

A prize-fighter? Well, I'll tell yuz I ust to be a fighter, but I don't know if I wuz a prize-fighter. No, I don't t'ink I wuz a prize-fighter, for I'll tell you why. Every time I went into dat graft yuz call prize-fighting de best I got wuz only for de odder fellow.

Say, I'll tell yuz something about de time when yours truly wuz in de graft.

I ust to hang out in a joint in Chinatown. It wuz a gin mill, and de bloke dat run it, he ust to deal in bum booze and dat class of prize-fighters. We ust to call him de manager, see.

Well, dis bloke I'm telling yuz about; de manager? Yes. Well, dis bloke ust to get all de fights for de bunch, see, and he'd pick out one of de bunch and say to him:

“Say, how much do you weigh?”

De nuckle-pusher he'd look at himself in de glass and say:

“Oh, about 180.”

Den dis bloke, de manager, he'd trow his oyster on de nuckle-pusher and say:

“You're too heavy. I want a mug about 118.”

Den he'd go in de back room and he'd weigh up de bunch dat would be sleepin' on de chairs, an' he'd shake de chairs and wake de talent, you know, de nuckle-pushers.

“Aw. w'ot are yer talkin' about? If dere's enny fite in a bloke, it's got to come out, just like de measles.”

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Well, he'd say: “How much doz any of yuz mugs weigh?”

Well, dey would all begin stretchin' and gappin', and den some of dem would say, with a gap and another stretch:

“What weight do you want?”

Den de manager he'd say: “I want a 118-pound man.”

“Say, Jim,” one of de bunch asked, “what's de weight?”

De whole bunch jumped to dere feet with: “Say, Jim, I kin do dat.”

“Well, come here. Let me smell your breath.” He'd take a smell and say:

“Go and sit down, you bung-hole.”

Then he'd pick me out and say:

“Ho, Chuck, come here. Kin you make 118?”

“I don't know, manager,” I'd say. Den he'd take me over to de scales and make me get on, and I'd shove de ring up to 135.

“You can make it all rite,” he'd say, an' then he'd horse me over to the Sheeney t'ree-cent baths and leave me dere fer twelve hours wit' nuttin' to eat and nuttin' to drink.

Well, I wuz talkin' to one of de blokes dat wuz bringin' in de soap an' water to me an' in comes de manager hollering murder watch. He comes taring over to me in de swet room an' sez:

“Say, wrot's de matter wit' you?”

“Wot's de matter?” I sez.

De manager sez, “Say, how is yuz goin' to get down to weight talkin' all de time?”

Well, to make a long story short, I sez:

“Manager, I got to talk to make meself believe I'm alive, fur on de level I've been livin' on suspission for de last t'ree weeks, an' now your feedin' me on de extract.”

“Extract of what?” asked de wise guy, showing his crockery wid a gas laugh.

“Oh, extract of suspission, of course,” I sed, an' I gave him a smile dat dazzled his eyes an' put freckles on his neck, an' I waltzed away to de tune of 'I don't care if you never come back.'

Trainin'? Oh, good nite. Dat manager could train a bloke up an' down in a minnit. He could take it off an' put it on so fast dat de scales would keep jumpin' around like a Dago fruit peddler wid his cart upset. Dere ain't no manager like him no more, an' it's a good t'ing fer de nuckle-pushers dere ain't, 'cause de coin would be all goin' one way—an' dat way would be de manager's.

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