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to millionaires and diamond tiaras, tearing down invaluable tapestries and heaving upholstered chairs into the orchestra, we had as fine a mess as the old MacreadyForrest riots in Astor Place.
At the moment I was too mad to appreciate the humor of it. I didn't really get the joke till I heard of the manner in which my friend Sanger had received the news. It seems he had been sitting in the garden of the Hotel Cecil in London, having something long, cool and stimulating with Charles Frohman and telling him— Frohman never liked me any too well— how he'd stuck me for triple the usual price for the Metropolitan. Whereupon another American interrupted the story by leaning over and handing Sanger a copy of the New York Times, just arrived, with big headlines on the front page: "RIOT IN METROPOLITAN OPERA HOUSE." It wasn't long afterwards that Sanger left the Metropolitan and turned his talents in other directions.
As for my taking a poke at Fitzsimmons, that wasn't as much to brag about as it may sound. I'd have handed Paul Bunyan one the same way just then, being too sore to have good sense. And besides, I was a nippy enough boxer in my own right to be able to take care of myself for a little while.
Our fun and games with the Turk didn't last much longer. In spite of his affection for me as a source of thick steaks and gold pieces he was getting harder to handle. I had a scheme for touring him out to the