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SHOWMAN
the ring, he fired a string of the choicest epithets in his Cockney vocabulary at Corbett as he reached his corner. And, when the fight began, he drew first blood— a lucky left on Corbett's nose that started a little bleeding. That meant a lot in boxing psychology forty years ago.
He never stopped talking— a stream of beautifully calculated insult and obscenity flowed smoothly from his mouth all the while he was within hearing distance of the champion. Corbett's angered flush got darker and darker during the first round. In the second, he went clean loco, tore into Mitchell— and don't forget Jim Corbett could hit with both hands, as well as outspar anybody in the world— and clubbed the little fellow to his knees. At the count of four Mitchell got up and then sank to his knees again without being struck, just to get another nine counts to talk to Corbett in. There he knelt, cocky and saucy, snarling lurid comment on Corbett's ancestry and past, present and future. A wooden Indian couldn't have stood it. Corbett shoved the referee on one side and socked Mitchell while he was on his knees— a rank, unmistakable foul.
Back of both corners the gunmen were on their feet with revolvers drawn for action. The crowd was making noise for ten times its size. It was old Jack Dempsey who saved the day. He leaped into the ring, with me after him, faced Corbett, slapped him violently in the face and drove him away from Mitchell.
Our entering the ring was a second foul. Mitchell's
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