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SHOWMAN
the color-line, to whip Corbett. It was a good idea that didn't work. After thirty rounds of wicked fighting, neither man would take more chances— and for thirty rounds more, until the referee was forced to call it no contest, they waltzed round one another, Corbett saying to Jackson: "Come on, you— you're the famous fighter— come on in and finish me up." Any recent amateur who could stay sixty rounds with Peter Jackson had arrived. Overnight the papers all over the country were blazing with Corbett's name— and that was where I stepped into the picture with both feet.
I was in New York, fighting Augustin Daly's injunction against my playing "After Dark." Pending appeal on the case, I could go on with the play in a Bowery theater, not a block and a half from the spot where my father had dropped dead in the street. Business was pretty good, but I wanted standing-room only— and these sudden headlines in the papers gave me ideas. The ink on the headlines was hardly dry when I was telegraphing Jim to come east and do a sparring exhibition for me in "After Dark" for $150 a week. Primrose and West, the minstrel kings, far bigger frogs in the theatrical puddle than I was, had the same idea at the same time. But memories of summer evenings and nice girls in Santa Cruz must have won— I got the call. And from then on the team of Brady and Corbett was never headed while it stayed together.
The movies didn't invent the idea of exploiting fighters as actors. That was already a well-known gag
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