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SHOWMAN
taking on the big wrestlers out there, our progress was just a series of shindies. We had a riot in Cleveland, when we wrestled Tom Jenkins, who is now wrestling instructor at West Point, and was nearer a match for the Turk than any other man I ever saw him wrestle. We had a riot in Cincinnati that time the Turk lay on Charles Whitman for an hour and forty-five minutes. We had a riot in Chicago when we wrestled "Strangler" Lewis— the old Strangler, not the modern one. The audience consisted largely of the old-time Stockyards Gang, famous from coast to coast as tough eggs —they had all bet their shirts on Lewis and, to protect their investment, had supplied their own referee. In due time the referee whacked the Turk on the shoulder, made him get up and gave the bout to Lewis on a foul. "What foul?" I wanted to know. "Palate-hold," said the referee. I'd never heard of a palate-hold before, nor, I shrewdly suspect, had anybody else. At that point, I got into the ring and announced that, very well, Lewis was the winner. But it was a dirty deal and, now that the crooked money behind the frame-up had had its innings, we'd wrestle Lewis again right on the spot to prove who was the better man. The crowd came over to our side and made such a racket that Lewis had to come back into the ring— and the Turk threw him twice in five minutes. Lewis was carried from the ring.
And we had a riot of riots when we wrestled Roeber again at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York.
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