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SHOWMAN
Fitzsimmons showed where he stood by crossing the Arkansas border at Texarkana and voluntarily giving himself up to the law. He might well have been afraid of actually getting into the ring with Corbett. Jim was in the pink of condition, as fine as I ever saw him, and the chances are all that, if the fight had come off as scheduled, Fitz would never have been champion of the world.
When we arrived in Little Rock, we found Fitz already there in charge of another specimen of local killer named Jesse Hurd— the only man in Arkansas who had more notches on his gun than our Mr. Houpt. Take it all round, it was a touchy situation, and called for counting ten before you so much as dared brush your teeth. But I got too mad for discretion when Hurd threw a member of our party into jail for merely making an injudicious crack about the state's attitude toward boxing. I got on the telephone and made some pretty strong remarks about Hurd in the process of reminding the governor that he'd promised all of us protection if we'd come to Little Rock peaceably. Evidently the governor used my protest to bawl Hurd out with and quoted some of my remarks. When I was down at breakfast the next morning, Hurd appeared, his hand in his coat pocket, and a look on his face that soured every pitcher of cream in the dining-room.
He walked over to where Fitz was sitting and asked him to point out this fellow Brady. Fitz obliged very cheerfully. As Hurd came over to my table, I could see
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