"Yer does dat like yer wuz a perfessional." "Great Scott!" gasped Bruce.

"I'd never torture myself in this way if I didn't have to! It is awful!" He looked around for a chair, but Buster grinned and said: "Dat's right, set right down--nit.

Youse don't do dat no more in dis joint.

Wen I gits yer yere, yer works till yer t'rough--see?
Dat's der way ter pull der meat off er man." "Well, what's next ?" "See if yer can raise yer record anoder pound on der striker." Bruce went at the striking machine, which registered the exact number of pounds of force in each blow it received.
"Has any one beaten me yet ?" he asked.
"Naw.

Dere ain't nobody come within ninety pound of yer." Bruce looked satisfied, but he made up his mind to raise his record if possible, and he succeeded in adding twelve pounds to it.
"Say!" exclaimed Buster, "if dat cove wot yer arter does you he's a boid!" "That's just what he is," nodded Bruce, streaming with perspiration.