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SHOWMAN
licked by a better man. But thank God he's an American!"
You can imagine— or maybe you can't— how it feels to call your shot on winning the world's heavyweight championship. We were delirious and so was the whole of New Orleans. But we didn't forget business just the same. The fight had already crowded the presidential campaign off the front pages, but we made sure of cracking them wide open again, and planting Corbett in the public mind as the gentleman pugilist once and for all, by his actions after the victory. It was traditional, of course, for the winner to go on a colossal binge after the fight, painting the town red in an openhanded carousal that sometimes lasted a month. But not our man. After the fight he returned to the Y.M.C.A., where he had trained, drank a large glass of pure, innocent milk and retired decorously to rest. And you can be sure we made certain that the gentlemen of the press got the full effect of the picture.
On the winner-take-all basis, we got $25,000 out of the fight. But that was chicken-feed compared with what started rolling in as we began cleaning up in the wake of the lithographs which had so annoyed Sullivan. In ten days we took in $16,000 profit. Fifteen thousand people met us at the station in New York, and Madison Square Garden was jammed that night to see him box a few rounds with a sparring partner. When we gave a benefit for Sullivan— John L. hadn't got a cent out of his defeat, you see— with Corbett and
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