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SHOWMAN
ing a dangerous mastiff whom he knew he could tame. But Sullivan knocked his hand aside in a contemptuous fury. Corbett laughed in his face and shrugged his shoulders, saying in pantomime as plainly as if he'd spoken. "All right, mister, if you want it that way." It was just what the doctor ordered.
The second punch came in the third. The crowd didn't like the new boxing at all. As Corbett danced round Sullivan, feinting, side-stepping, staying away and wearing him down, they booed him for a coward. "Go on and fight, you dancing master!" was all you heard. Finally Corbett stopped dead in his tracks, ignoring the lumbering Sullivan, held up his hands and deliberately shushed the crowd, saying in another bit of eloquent pantomime: "Just wait a minute; you'll get your money's worth." And then, as Sullivan rushed him, he went into his dance again. That piece of audacity jolted John L. clear back on his psychological heels.
Up to that point things were going swimmingly. But Corbett got impatient after the second, started telling me that it was a cinch— he could go right in and finish Sullivan off any time. So far John L. hadn't put a glove on him, and he was wearing down according to schedule—but all the same one stray punch from the old master's crushing right could still ruin everything. I was frantic with apprehension, for everything meant not only the championship, but "Gentleman Jack" as well. And "Gentleman Jack" was going to make us a
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