on the level and goes delirious. A third-rater cannot stall, even if you rehearse him for a year. He don't know enough to slip inside what looks like man-killin' wallops, and when stung he forgets what he was told and fights! He's like the boneheaded but crack ball player which couldn't throw a game for a million dollars in dimes because he's got no imagination—he's a machine. He can't make the error which would frame the thing for the other side, because once he's in there he remembers nothin' but to play ball to the best of whatever ability he has. It ain't particularly because he's honest; he's shy the intelligence to be a first-class crook! The third-rate scrapper is the same way. Tell him for a month to rate the other guy along, pull his wallops, and take a occasional count to make it look good for the "return bouts," and when he climbs into the ring he forgets all about his instructions and goes ahead on his own hook as per usual. Given a fair chance, he'll innocently knock the other tramp for a goal, and spoil him for future and profitable use.
The fighter himself is in no way responsible for the conditions which surround box fightin' to-day. Like the exceedin'ly late czar of the playful Russians, he's more or less the victim of circumstances. Modern professional boxin' is a business as well organized as the circus. As perpetrated in some of the big burgs, prize fightin' is very close to bein' a trust. The boxers on the inside are carefully nursed along, advertised, and exploited the same as a breakfast food, patent medicine, or movie star, and the tough ambitious outsider has the same chance of bustin' into the large money as I got of bein' elected Queen of Montenegro.
