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.