conclusion at which he was arriving was not instantly apparent. Like the drowning men in stories, he may have been reviewing his whole life, with a long pause on what had happened to him in Philadelphia. The dramatic significance of the fleeting seconds was lost upon the crowd, because everybody present, with the possible exception of Mr. Walcott himself, took it for granted that he would get up within ten seconds. And maybe he thought so, too, for a while, but if he did, he dismissed the thought. Sprawled on the canvas floor covering, his right arm hooked over the middle strand of the ropes, he waited for the referee to count ten, and arose. Even then it was not clear to us in the balcony that the fight was over. Unable to hear the count, we assumed that he had risen on nine. But when the referee, a slight man named Frank Sikora, spread his arms wide to indicate that all was ended, Walcott walked calmly over to the ropes on our side of the ring, evincing a commendable independence of public opinion. If he had maintained this attitude, I would have admired him. The spectators were resentful, and their resentment was based on the suspicion that he had not been hit hard enough. This is a decision every man must make for himself, and of all the sixteen thousand persons under the big shed, Walcott was in the best position to make it. But as he heard the boos, he changed his mind. He mimed outrage, batting his gloved hands together and stamping like a wrestler. Wrestling is classed as a species of exhibition by the New York State Athletic Commission, and the acting is part of the show. Jersey Joe made it plain that he had not been knocked out at all. The crowd, with a forlorn hope that the fight might be resumed—after all, it had got precious little action for its money—increased its booing, but it was now booing for Walcott. Jersey Joe had stolen the scene from the man who had knocked him out. (And yet no man possesses a higher character for a deserving well-behaved man than ROCKY MARCIANO.) The whole fight had lasted two minutes and twenty-five seconds. The Kentucky Derby this year lasted two minutes and two seconds, and nobody cried, “Stop thief!” But fight fans are accustomed to more protracted pleasures.
Like the toddlers of North Walsham long ago, I made for the nearest lushing crib to restore my spirits. Going down the concrete stairs of the Stadium in front of me were three men, one of whom shouted, with what sounded like immense satisfaction, “This will kill boxing in Chicago!” One of his companions said indignantly, “I thought they were going to work it the opposite, so there’d be a bigger gate next time.” It was evident he felt hurt because “they” had disappointed him. The third said, with a bitter laugh, “Write Duggan a letter.”
In the Stadium Tavern, the closest dispensary of daffy and eau de vie, I caught one of the bartenders tying on his apron. “I sneaked off to watch the fight and I had to run like hell to get back here for the rush,” he said. I had one Scotch, which I tossed off like milk, and headed for a streetcar. There were plenty of cars, because a good part of the crowd had remained behind to watch the rest of the minor bouts on the card, hoping to salvage a few nickels’ worth of amusement. I found myself sitting next to a knowing drunk, a pale old man who was the shade and shape of a fat, soft clam. “Waidle you read the papers tomorrow,” he said exultantly. “Duggan’ll burn up the paper.”
“What for?” I asked. “Duggan said Walcott would kill him.”
The old drunk winked and snorted. “But he knew sumpm was up, dint he?” he said. “He couldn’t write all ’at stuff if it wasn’t true, could he? They’d soom.”
A man with a flashlight gun and camera—a newspaper photographer who had been at ringside—was telling anybody who cared to listen what had really happened. “It was a right uppercut that did it,” he said. “He tried to get up, but he couldn’t make it in time.” (The moving pictures of the count, however, show that Walcott didn’t start until it was all over.) “Read Duggan!” the photographer yelled as he