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SHOWMAN
I'd accidentally added another ton or so to the psychological load. Ever since our first exhibition tour, Corbett's mascot had been a mutt collie named Ned who had picked Corbett up in Boston, taken a terrific shine to him and refused to leave him. Jim wasn't as superstitious as some fighters, but Ned, who had been part of the picture surrounding both the Sullivan and Mitchell fights, was a symbol of luck to him. Besides, Jim loved him for his devotion and his bravery— that dog would fight anything on two or four legs and kill or get killed. When we went to Europe, we left Ned behind with John W. Norton, the St. Louis actormanager. As I went west to join Jim at Carson City, I picked Ned up and took him along as a surprise.
I didn't know, you see, that Harry Corbett, Jim's brother, had already bought Jim a beautiful thoroughbred collie and installed him at the Carson City camp. The new dog was a fine specimen, bright and affectionate, and Jim was crazy about him. When Ned and I arrived unannounced at the training quarters, we found Corbett sitting with the new dog in his lap. Ned didn't even stop to say hello to Corbett. He left the ground in a savage spring and had the new dog half throttled by the time Corbett and I could tear them apart. Obviously, there was going to be murder if the two were allowed together, so Ned was relegated to the kitchen while the new dog went to sleep at the foot of Corbett's bed— Ned's traditional post— in the cottage across the road.
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