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SHOWMAN
good performance for an amateur, too. The two men's dressing-rooms were right opposite on the same corridor. I got Julian into a loud argument in the corridor on how the clinches were to be managed, in the course of which Fitz came out and stuck in his oar, as I knew he would. After we'd yelled at each other a while, I said we'd settle it in front of Jeffries and hustled the pair of them into Jeff's dressing-room, where he was stretched out on the rubbing-table— a huge, longarmed, heavy-muscled but supple giant, with a regular doormat of hair on his chest. That was the first time Fitz had laid eyes on him stripped for action and it must have been quite a jolt. It was like expecting a house-cat and then finding it was a mountain-lion you were expected to play with.
But it wasn't a patch on the jolt Fitz got presently. Jeff lay and listened a while, then chipped in, and then, all of a sudden: "Show you what I mean," he said, leaped up, threw me aside, clinched with Fitz and broke away with tremendous violence, hurling the Australian— he was only a middleweight on the scales, remember— clear into a far corner of the room with no more effort than if he'd been a stuffed dummy. I've always thought Fitz lost his fight then and there. You could see it in his eye as he walked out. If it wasn't there, it was the moment in the sixth round when he landed his famous solar-plexus punch, the one that had stopped Corbett, with all he had behind it— and Jeff
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