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SHOWMAN
ning, when he met O'Donnell, Corbett and me in a hotel lobby, he started the tongue-lashing all over again. I had to get between them and tell Sullivan to shut up, with appropriate verbal embroidery.
That wasn't as risky as it sounds, perhaps. Although Sullivan was down and out, he could still have knocked me across the lobby with one tap, no doubt. But then, as now, fighters are afraid of out-of-the-ring brawls with non-professionals. In plenty of cases fighters have been killed in such fracases and the killers have been acquitted—and in any case courts and public would be whole-heartedly against the professional bruiser who had beaten up a civilian.
Why, when I met Fitzsimmons and Martin Julian, his manager, to sign articles for the Corbett fight, Fitz started abusing Corbett and I had to tell him that, if he didn't pipe down and tend to business, I'd make him jump out of the window. Corbett had refused to attend the meeting at all— that was the way he felt about Fitz. I left the place ahead of them— it was the office of the old New York Herald at 35th and Broadway—but I wasn't going to let that look like running away. So I hung round the door on the sidewalk and waited for them— made both Fitz and Julian walk out and look me in the eye as they passed up a chance to do something about our little conversation upstairs.
We were in a grudge-fight and no mistake this time. The grudge-fight is one of the oldest gags in boxing —as badly overworked as " Hello, Ma, I'm all right and
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