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SHOWMAN
hopped into the ring claiming "Foul!" for all I was worth. That's a good second's first duty. Between you and me, if the people in Firpo's corner had been on their toes about fouls when Firpo fought Dempsey, Luis Angel Firpo might have been champion of the world for a time— although it was that same night that Dempsey proved himself one of the greatest fighters that ever lived.
Everything started happening at once about the time I struck the ring. Fitzsimmons came out of Roeber's corner to meet me and gave me a shove in the chest that sent me backwards to the edge. I came back on the rebound and let him have it— the heavyweight champion, no less— square on the point of the jaw for all I had in me. Then I went away from there hastily, with Fitz coming after me, that hairy freckled right hand of his cocked and ready. But he hadn't got six steps when a policeman appeared behind him, flourishing a twofoot hickory nightstick. He was a friend of mine.
"Lay a hand on that lad," he said to Fitzsimmons, "and, champion or no champion, I'll break this club right across your skull."
So Fitz thought better of it. There was plenty to distract both of us from our private war. The referee was standing in the middle with the dazed look of a man having a bad dream. Between the crowd trying to get on the stage to mix in the row and the police beating them back in the interest of law, if not order, and the boys in the sacred dress-circle, ordinarily consecrated
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