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SHOWMAN
McLaughlin, a police-official I knew, to come and stand beside me, and bided my time.
Corbett's age began to tell after the sixteenth. He was tiring rapidly and, as the thing went on, beautifully as he stayed away, you could see he could hardly hold up his hands. But Jeff wasn't getting anywhere, either. I got word from a confidential and thoroughly reliable source on the other side of the ring that, if the fight went the full twenty-five rounds, the referee would call it a draw or even a decision for Corbett.
At the end of the twenty-second, only three rounds to go, I jumped back into the corner to do or die. Ryan got up on his hind legs again and told me to get out and stay out. I beckoned McLaughlin over and told Ryan to dry up or get thrown out of the clubhouse. That quieted him down and I went to work on Jeffries.
"Jeff," I said, "if this thing goes the full route, you're sunk. Don't box him— fight him! You're playing his game— he's stalling you! Drop this foolishness and wade in— shut your eyes and hit him! Hit him anywhere! He's worn out and wide open— go after him!" Finally, he blinked and gave in.
"All right, Bill," he said somewhere down in his chest, put his gloves up to his bleeding face for a moment and got to his feet. Then he turned on the power and waded in. In three minutes more it was all over.
I'd vindicated myself, but it was a bad moment for all of that. I was the first man to get to Corbett and pick him up.
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