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bett felt he had to discipline a local tough who had insulted one of the ladies in the cast— it was the Fourth of July and she was wearing a little American flag in the lapel of her coat. And then he got farther into the bad graces of the local citizenry when he disgustedly refused the special entertainment they had provided for him— a trip to a rat-pit, where a champion dog was to kill a thousand rats in a thousand seconds.
In fact, Paris was the only place we made any money. Boxing didn't exist in France in those times. Hitting a man with your fist was the one thing which automatically meant a long sentence in the cooler— discouraging to the manly art. So we were a complete novelty, and when we appeared at the Folies Bergere, with Daly and Corbett sparring in the blazing lights specially installed for Loie Fuller's dances, we cleaned up $10,000 in ten days. In the customs, on landing, the whole staff of the customs house went into ecstasies over a three-sheet lithograph of Corbett in fightingtogs. "Ah! Le boxeur! Ah, qu'il est beau!" was all you heard for ten minutes.
Nothing would do but Corbett must get into the ring with a French expert in la savate— the French foot-boxing in which you could kick a man in the jaw, flopping down on one arm to do it in a sort of an upside down off-to-Buffalo, but you couldn't use your fists. What happened reminded me of nothing more nor less than Daly and the kangaroo in Chicago. The Frenchman flopped and kicked Corbett in the face just