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SHOWMAN
police. He told me once that his last fight with Choynski, thirty-odd rounds with only riding-gloves— wickeder than bare fists, some ways— was the worst he'd ever been through. So naturally, when the great John L. came to San Francisco, they tried to get him to meet Corbett, who had turned pro in the meantime by becoming the Olympic instructor.
Sullivan would consent only to a three-round exhibition in full evening dress— it was a charity benefit, attended by the finest people in town, men and women, like a Metropolitan opening; Corbett was already drawing the ladies. They sparred politely to genteel applause, but those three short rounds probably had a great deal to do with Corbett's becoming champion just the same. Sullivan was the king of pugilism, a legendary man-killer— and yet, Corbett found, he could hit him at will and stay away from him at will. The way Sullivan would bite at a feint was something Corbett recalled with magnificent effect in New Orleans several years later. All Sullivan or any of the old-timers knew was a straight left and a right-handed haymaker. Corbett was pioneering with fast footwork, hooks and uppercuts. I've seen them all since Sullivan, big and little, and Jim Corbett was the finest sparrer of them all. He revolutionized boxing, not only as a spectacle, but as a science as well.
Then Choynski's friends, smarting under their man's defeat, imported Peter Jackson, the great Australian negro, on whom Sullivan himself had drawn
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