A paper manufacturer, still doing business in New York City, after
seeing me "perform" in trial bouts, was induced to "put up" the
necessary money for my side of the purse, and we were matched to fight
in Pittsburg.
We "weighed in" at one hundred and forty pounds.
This, our first encounter, lasted twenty-seven rounds. The "humanity"
of our seconds and backers prevented us from going any further. Our
physical condition was the cause for stirring that "humanity."
We were smeared with blood, but that alone would not have been
sufficient to terminate the fight. A broken arm, a torn ear, a gash
from eye to lower part of cheek, constituted Tommy Gibbons' principal
injuries. I was damaged to the extent of two broken thumbs and a broken
nose, not mentioning minor disfigurements. But, what of that? Had not
the noble cause of sport derived a new impetus from our performance?
Had not the hearts and aspirations of the "select" crowd of spectators
been moved to higher emotions?
We had behaved so right manfully, that, at the ringside, we were matched
again for another meeting. In that, after seventeen rounds, I was
declared the winner on a "foul" of Gibbons.
Again we were matched, this time to fight according to London prize ring
rules--they permitting more latitude for our brutish instincts. It
resulted in a "draw," but not until we had entertained the very flower
of the sporting world for forty-three rounds.
Not yet satisfied as to which one of us was the greater brute, another
meeting was arranged, and I had the proud distinction of being the
victor in this fight of eleven rounds.
Poor Tommy Gibbons took his defeat very much to heart. His fistic
prestige was gone, and he went speedily to "the bad." He ended his busy
life at the hands of the hangman, paying therewith the penalty for one
of the most horrible murders ever committed.
Too bad that such a promising light in the sporting world should meet
with such ignoble end!
My backer, the paper manufacturer, who did so much, by effort and
expenditure, for the cause of sport, is still on my list of
acquaintances. He is eminently respectable, the father of an adoring
family, the model for striving young men, a pillar of his church, a
power in commercial life, and, withal, an enthusiastic follower of the
Manly Art of Self-Defense, provided the specimen of it is not too tame.
Apropos of the manly art of self-defense I want to record my individual
opinion that it is a lost art, if it really has ever been an art. In
the knightly art of fencing, skill, artful skill, is necessary and
acquired. Not so in boxing; at least not in that branch of boxing which
is only practised for money. Men who step into the ring for a "finish
fight" are not prompted by the desire of giving a clever exhibition of
boxing. Their only desire--if the fight "is on the level"--is to "put
out" their man somehow, as quickly as possible, and to collect their end
of the purse as promptly as possible. I have seen my quota of fights in
my life time, but never one in which claims of "fouls" were not made.
Is it not logical to suppose that leading exponents of their art should
be able to give a demonstration of it without resorting to foul means?
Although I have given "physical culture lessons" of a certain kind I
have but little knowledge of how boxing lessons are conducted in
academies and reputable gymnasiums. The popularity of this branch of
athletics indicates that the lessons are conducive to corporal
perfection, and teach men how to use their strength to best advantage
when driven to the point of defense.
This principle is not observed by "scrappers." They pay less, if any
attention to boxing than to learning tricks of their trade. It is all
very well for sporting writers to speak about Fitzsimmons' and
Sullivan's art, but I am quite sure that one or more efficient tricks is
the real mainspring of many pugilistic reputations.
The rules of the prize ring are fair and formed to protect men from foul
methods. For that very reason, all the tricks learned--and they are
many and efficient--are, if not absolutely fouls, so near the dividing
line that the margin of distinction is almost nil.
Through the press of the country we are informed that prizefighters
now-a-days make considerable fortunes. Then they did not, and having a
surprisingly healthy appetite in a healthy body, the fighting profession
sadly delayed the perfect development of my _embonpoint_.
*LIVING BY MY WITS.*
*CHAPTER V.*
*LIVING BY MY WITS.*
True, my fights with Tommy Gibbons and others had brought me some money,
but the social obligations were so many and the celebrations so frequent
that, after a short time of plenty, I always found myself "dead broke"
and compelled to resort to my "wits" for making a living.
All Chatham street--now Park Row--and the Bowery teemed with "sporting
houses," which offered opportunities to men of my class. In many of
these places boxing was the real or pretended attraction.
On an elevated stage from three to six pairs of boxers and wrestlers
furnished nightly entertainment for a roomful of foolish men,
and--more's the pity!--women. The real purpose of these gatherings must
remain nameless here, but this fact we must note, that all of these
"sporting-houses," these hells of blackest iniquity, were run by
so-called statesmen, patriots, politicians, many of them lawmakers, or
else by their figureheads.
The figureheads were chosen with great carefulness. To become a proxy
owner of a "sporting-house" one had to have a reputation, sufficient to
attract that particularly silly and morbid crowd of _habitues_. Some of
the reputations were made in the prize ring, viz: Frank White, manager
of the Champion's Rest, on the Bowery, two doors north of Houston
street; Billy Madden, Mike Cleary and other "prominent" prizefighters.
A few of them, as Billy Madden and Frank Stevenson, later branched out
as backers of pugilists, policy shops and gambling houses.
Reputations made in prisons were also accepted as qualifications, and
"Fatty" Flynn, Billy McGlory, Tommy Stevenson, Jimmy Nugent, of
Manhattan Bank robbery fame, and other ex-inmates of jails owed their
wide popularity and money-making capacity to their terms spent behind
the bars. An isolated position of especially luminous glamor was
acceptably filled by the famous Mr. Steve Brodie, the bridge-jumper, and
greatest "fake" and fraud of the period.
In places where boxing was not the attraction, the vilest passions of
human nature were vainly incited by painted sirens, who, by experience
and compulsion of their employers, had become perfect in their shrewd
wickedness. In front of these "joints"--frequently called "bilking
houses"--glaring posters, picturing the pleasures within, were displayed
in most garish array.
In addition to these places described, a number of dance-halls, notably
Billy McGlory's Armory Hall, and "Fatty" Flynn's place in Bond street,
completed the boast of the day that New York City was a "wide-open
town," and the "only place in the world fit to live in."
It was not very difficult for one, accustomed to the environment, to
"make a living" in it by his "wits."
Any one, not minding a short spell of strenuousness, could always get
from a dollar and a half to two dollars for "donning the mitts" in the
"sporting-houses," where boxing was the special feature. Others, having
neither the training or inclinations to take part in these "set-to's,"
officiated as waiters--"beer-slingers"--and found it more remunerative,
if more tedious work.
It seems to be a distinct trait of people who visit these "dives" and
"joints" to leave their small allowance of intelligence at the door.
Men, who, in their daily occupation, are fairly alert and awake to their
interests, permit themselves to be cheated by the most transparent
devices of the "beer-slingers."
To give these fellows a bill in payment of drinks is simply inviting
them to experiment on you. Over charging, "palming"--retaining a coin in
the palm of the hand between ball of thumb and fleshy
part--"flim-flamming"--doubling a bill in a number of them, and counting
each end of it as one separate bill--are the most common means of
cheating employed. Whenever any of these tricks failed, the money was
either withheld or taken away by force, and the victim--the
"sucker"--bodily thrown into the streets as a "disorderly person."