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SHOWMAN
balanced on his skinny little legs, and Corbett, jerking like a man shot in the back, stood almost erect for a moment and then collapsed like a suit of old clothes. I'd been afraid of defeat, but now that it had come, I didn't believe it. I couldn't believe that Gentleman Jim, the only heavyweight I ever saw who was a perfect balance of skill and courage and strength, had actually been counted out. And, if it was bad for me, think what it was for Corbett. The knockout hadn't put him out— just paralyzed him temporarily— and, after the bell, he got up and, mad with rage, tried to go on fighting the winner. After we got him back to his room, I know he was contemplating suicide for a while.
Take it all round, it was just as bad a mess as I had feared at the beginning. Our twenty-five percent of the admission profits didn't do any more than pay training expenses. The moving-picture of the fight, the first movie ever to get really big money, took in three-quarters of a million. But by the time Stuart got through with it, our quarter of the profits was tantalizingly small, compared with what we would have got if the governor of Arkansas hadn't been such a tough specimen. Corbett went west, bent on retirement. I went east, as sick as a dog.
Bob Fitzsimmons had knocked out Gentleman Jim Corbett in broad daylight. As Corbett's manager, I'd been within fifteen feet of them when it happened and there were several thousand witnesses to check it by.
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