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SHOWMAN
hotel room in Toledo one afternoon and finding a man fooling round with a batch of plaster of Paris. He'd made a cast of Corbett's right hand and was cleaning up preparatory to departing.
"What's all this?" I said.
"Nothing," said Corbett. "This man wants to make a cast of my hand and make paperweights of it, that's all."
"Oh, he does?" said I. In one step I'd crossed the room, picked up the cast and smashed it to bits. "It's a good idea," I said, "but it's going to cost him a thousand dollars to do it." It did cost him just that, and, on a rough estimate, he must have made $50,000 out of the deal. Everywhere you went for the next year, you saw that paperweight cast of the hand that had finally clubbed the great John L. off his throne.
We lived high on our immense profits. And we were always careful to do things elegantly as well as lavishly. It wasn't necessary to put it on— that was Corbett's natural instinct. Where Sullivan's grand gesture had been to march into a barroom under the elevated, throw a pocketful of silver on the bar— his pockets were always bulging with silver— and call for drinks on the house, Corbett's style was to enter a crystal-lighted hotel dining-room and open wine for the company at some ten times the expense. His hotel bill during our tours with "Gentleman Jack" averaged round a thousand a week —the money went out in bucketfuls, but it was coming in by tankfuls, so it didn't matter. And he wasn't just
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