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SHOWMAN
to come east and I'd make him champion in a year. And then I got to work on Fitzsimmons.
Being in business with some of Fitz's friends gave me a private pipeline to his inmost thoughts which I could work to a fare-ye-well without seeming to. On the quiet I let these friends of his know that this Jeffries I was bringing east was just a counterfeit who would look good enough to land a heavyweight bout for the Coney Island Club— but not dangerous. After that had had time to soak in, I tackled Julian, Fitz's manager, with an ordinary straight proposition. He listened. Then he argued and argued and Fitz backed and filled and changed his mind every other day. But I knew the poison was working and that all the while the pair of them was getting extremely reassuring word from private sources that, while the fight wasn't in the bag or anything like that, Jeffries was just a likely looking pushover. Fitz had never seen Jeff in his life, and it was just as well. When we got round to terms I meekly had to give him sixty-five percent of the fighters' end of the gate, win, lose or draw, just to keep it sounding logical. "After all," said Fitz indulgently, "this fellow's only coming on to get licked and make a little money. He ought to be satisfied with a few thousand."
We kept Jeff thoroughly under wraps until just before the fight. Then, however, I put him through an act— carefully rehearsed beforehand— which was intended to let Fitz know at the psychological moment just what he was up against. I will say Jeff put up a
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