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SHOWMAN
in the ring— throw her arms round him and kiss him and sponge off his face with her own fair hands. Then she'd go back with the bell and give the senator another fit of heebie-jeebies. If they'd taken a movie of that box during the fight they'd have had the first and best comic short ever made.
I'd rather not go on from there. It's not only that the Carson City fight has been described again and again. It's even more that the recollection of how it felt to see Corbett struggling on in a sort of parody of his former brilliance with all the marrow gone out of his bones is something I don't like to think of yet. He was a beautiful fighter, even at his worst. The first six rounds were all his way— jab and feint and stay away and cut your man down to size— the old formula, but the zip was lacking, even when, in the sixth, he landed clean and laid Fitz on the floor. Fitz was cool enough to take the full nine seconds to come back in, and managed so well the rest of the round that Corbett wore himself out trying to finish him off. It was that last minute or so of the sixth that told me the whole story. From then on the best I could do was borrow a quart bottle of whisky from the man next to me— the first time in my life I ever appreciated the taste of straight whisky— and consume it in frantic gulps with no more effect than if it had been so much soda-pop.
And I needed the effect the worst way when Fitz landed the famous solar-plexus punch with all the power of his Herculean torso that looked so queer
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