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SHOWMAN
was there because the Hearst papers had hired him to report the fight from the intellectual angle, whatever that was supposed to be. The racket of hiring eminent names to write special stories was already started then, with even less attention paid to the pertinence of the name to the event covered. So here was the senator, a very famous man in his day, parked in a ringside box, silk hat, frock coat, carnation in the lapel, stiff as a poker and solemn as an undertaker, trying to make sense out of a spectacle as foreign to his sober-minded world as a voodoo ceremony in the Haitian bush.
Just to make sure he wouldn't make any sense out of it at all, some inspired functionary had planted him in the same box with Mrs. Fitzsimmons. She had been Rose Julian, sister of Fitz's manager, and worked with her brother in a variety turn, tumbling and acrobatics, in the cheap cellar theaters that studded old San Francisco. In her stage days she'd been handsome as a debutante Brunhilde and some three times as husky— it was Rose who tossed her brother round and carried him on her shoulders and did the strong-arm end of the act in general. After she married Bob and went out of training, she'd put a lot more weight on a frame that had hardly been sylphlike in the beginning, and now she was by all odds the most conspicuous object in sight— with the possible exception of the rough booth they'd put up to contain the movie cameras. When Mrs. Fitz got in the corner behind Bob's chair just be
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