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SHOWMAN
to be a story, which I still insist is mostly legend, about the way we disposed of a tough baby named Monahan who wouldn't scare and wouldn't be knocked out either. That was at the old Lyceum Theater in Philadelphia, near the start of the tour. Monahan was a husky pug made of sole-leather and cast-iron who specialized on champions taking ' 'meet-all-comers' ' tours and had quite a local reputation as the fellow who'd taken $100 away from Sullivan and a lot of others by staying the stipulated three rounds. We'd planned on giving the usual exhibitions between Corbett and Daly, but the local papers were proud of their durable champion-baiter and began demanding to see what Corbett could do against him. When Monahan started hanging round the stage-door and shouting challenges to Corbett, we gave in and arranged the bout.
In the dressing-room Corbett and Daly gave him the works, but he just grunted— he seemed to have heard something like that before. And, in the ring, he was just as tough as they said he was. No matter how Corbett pasted him around, with my heart in my mouth at every blow on account of his hands, Monahan kept boring in for more, swinging and suffering, and if one of those punches landed, there'd be damage done. I was referee, and, in spite of the prospect of losing a hundred bucks, I made those some of the shortest rounds ever boxed. The final round was just the same as before— Monahan was no boxer, but he could take punishment like a butcher's block. So, as the story says,
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