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SHOWMAN
we found all the best seats full of uniformed men, armed to the teeth, paying nothing and refusing to get out. There was nothing whatever to do about it— no police, no nothing. We had to sink or swim on our own.
Back of Mitchell's corner sat Bat Masterson, the famous Western man-killer, and another gunman named Converse, with two guns apiece to make sure Mitchell's interests were properly looked after. We had our own artillery back of Corbett's corner. As it happened, their services weren't needed. But there was no telling that beforehand. Only a few nights before the fight Corbett's collie, who always slept across the foot of the champion's bed, had roused up and flushed an intruder on the porch of the training-quarters. Corbett had taken a shot into the dark and been fired back at.
Just to make sure that fight was one of the weirdest mills ever staged, our referee was Honest John Kelly, a baseball umpire new to boxing. In time he became a famous referee, but then he knew as much about the rules as the governor of Florida. It was a good thing from Corbett's point of view, for, if Kelly had known his stuff, Mitchell would have won on a foul before the party was well begun.
Now that he had Corbett where he wanted him, Mitchell kept right on with his goat-getting. He kept us waiting for ten minutes after we got into the ring, with Corbett's rage getting nearer the boiling-point every minute. When he finally skipped blithely into
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