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Show J,r,;, Colorful :C "" Kid ' By Howard Beckler J; j WNU Features. It is a well known fact that Marty Burns is thesmartest bozo in the leather pushing racket, Insofar as the managing end of the game is concerned. t That's how he happened to get his hooks onto the Walla Walla Kid, and came to make the one and only mistake of his career. This knuckle duster came bristling into the office one winter day with a crash and a bang. He tossed six newspaper hounds off the much-scarred much-scarred mahogany of Marty's desk, and then spoke his piece to the great man himself. "I can lick'nnybody in the joint," he told Marty. "Including you. Burns. But I ain't gonna." Marty Burns opened his mouth and closed it again. He was mildly shocked. "You're going to be all right, Kid," Marty told him. "And about your brains, I'll take care of that. I've got a set of signals worked out for your next fight. It'll be Just as though I'm right in the ring with you. I run my hand through my hair, you cross your right. I pull my left ear, and you hold him off with your left jab. I tweak my nose and you hook him to death with the left." In his fight with Big Boy Riley, the Kid dropped Riley for the count with a steaming right cross, while Marty is tweaking heck out of his I "- Aw ''' "I've been holding out on you, boss. Yeah. I've two faults Instead of one." nose, calling for a left hook. That kind of got under Marty's skin. "What's this mean, Kid?" Marty tweaked his nose for a demonstration. demonstra-tion. The Kid looked at him. "Your nose itch, boss," he said. No, the Kid wasn't exactly an Einstein. After that 'Marty tried every known method of signaling his fighter, fight-er, but the Kid kept on winning and doing the opposite to what the signal sig-nal called for. Before long, they signed with Tiger Jones, who was right next to the champ. The Kid was a magnet at the gate. Marty Burns wore himself to a shadow worrying about the Jones fight. He didn't sleep nights, trying to figure a way to get his brain into the ring with the Kid. He walked the streets. He smoked fifteen cigars a night. The Kid could never take Tiger Jones without his, Marty's, Mar-ty's, help. He was positive of that. Then two days before the fight, the Kid gave him the answer. He was reading his press notices in the Morning Gazette. "Hey, boss, listen to this: THE WALLA WALLA KID IS PERHAPS THE MOST COLORFUL COL-ORFUL SCRAPPER TO HIT THE COUNTRY IN A DECADE." "Colorful," Marty mused. "Colorful. "Color-ful. That's it! Colorful, colors!" He slammed the Kid on the back. "You like colors, don't you, Kid?" "It's jake with me, boss." "All right. This Is simple. Kid. So simple, I think even you can understand un-derstand it. Now, listen close," Marty talked slowly to make sure it would penetrate the mystic thickness thick-ness of the Kid's flaming skull. "I take three cards, of three different colors. I hold up the red card and you cross your right. Green card and you Jab with the left, and blue card you hook the left." They were hanging from the rafters raft-ers at the Armory the night of the fight. Tiger Jones didn't waste any time loosening up the Kid's lower lip with a wicked wallop. The Tiger was rushing. Marty flashed the blue card. A steaming left hook would slow the Tiger to a walk. But the Kid was backing away Jabbing with his left. The Tiger crashed through and dumped him in the corner for an eight count. That's just about the whole story. Four rounds later, the referee stepped in and pushed a badly beaten beat-en Walla Walla Kid to his corner. Reporters circled Marty and the Kid after he had showered and dressed. "What beat him, Marty?" They shot the question at the little manager. "His one and only fault beat him," Marty tapped the red head of the Kid. "Nothing between the ears." The Kid managed a grin through shattered lips. "I've been holding out on you, boss." "Yeah?" "Yeah. I forgot to tell you that I'm color blind." |