BoxRec

The Boxing Biographies Newsletter
Volume 2- No 9 7 April, 2008
http://www.boxingbiographies.com

If you wish to receive future newsletters ( which includes the images ) please email the message “NEWS LETTER”
[email protected]
The newsletter is also available as a word doc on request
As always the full versions of these articles are on the website

The Battling Nelson Story

FAMOUS EXPERT EXAMINES FIGHTER FOR
THE TRAVELER.
BY JOHN R. ROBINSON.

Wallop Battling Nelson in the stomach, hard and swift. Then follow it by another wallop in the same place. And according to the dope, you're lightweight champion of the world. You can hit Nelson on the jaw as long as you want, and the only thing that you'll hurt is your hands. You can hit him over the kidneys, on the ears, on the nose, blacken both eyes and pound his chest to a frazzle, and he'll still grin through the blood and come back for more.

This is no opinion of mine. I've boxed and wrestled with the wonderful Danish fighting machine, have pulled him to the floor and jumped on him, have battered his head against the walls of the gymnasium until my arms were sore, and the only thing I ever found out was that I got tired quicker than he did, and wanted to rest after the exercises and watch Nelson go through the same course with another willing man.

"Some people say I'm not human," said Nelson recently in Boston. "Joe Gans and Jack London have called me funny names, but still that real estate of mine keeps on increasing in value. And now I want to find out if I really am like other people, both in mind and body. I want you to take me to Dr. Sargent at Harvard, and have him settle the question."

DR. SARGENT WELL QUALIFIED FOR WORK.

This was ten days ago, and in the meantime Dr. Sargent has prepared charts and made his deductions. And The Traveler is fortunate enough to be able to present exclusively to its readers the opinions of the greatest physical culture expert in the world.

Just a few words about Dr. Sargent. He is so well known that the average reader does not need this information, but for those who are not acquainted with him, it may be well to say that he has examined some of the greatest pugilists of modern times, and has spent a lifetime in the study of the human body. Starting with his medical degree, he had the real foundation upon which to work to advise others their weak and strong physical points, and his many years' experience with his own physical culture institution at Cambridge and in the Hemimingway gymnasium have fitted him to talk expertly on Nelson as a fighter and a man.

We were sent to the Hemenway gymnasium by Dr.Sargent, and Nelson was ordered to undress. First his lungs were tested, then his grip, then his lifting, pulling and pushing power. Then the doctor took hold of him and started him through a course of exercises, stopping him every few moments to examine his heart, lungs and other portion of his anatomy.

"Nelson has the best heart and lungs I have ever examined," said the doctor. "Take the same care of yourself in the future as you have in the past, and you'll be champion for many years to come."

NELSON'S BRAIN is OF NORMAL SIZE.

Here is what Dr. Sargent said of the fighter after his examination. It shows wherein the Dane excels all other men for his own profession :"I find that Nelson is a very intelligent man," said Dr. Sargent. "His brain is of normal size there is nothing extraordinary about it, except that he can think quicker and act faster than most persons. "His heart, a most essential organ to be in perfect condition for a professional athlete, is a most extraordinary organ. It is about normal in size and beats very regularly. I find that it beats perfectly before exercise and during exertion increases a very little. After exertion it returns very quickly to its regular beat again. "This is very uncommon. A man who takes the exercise that all professional boxers should and do take regularly has, as a rule, a very irregular heart. But Nelson's heart does not show this weakness. He can go into the ring with his regular heart beat, fight a hard three minute round and his heart will beat faster. But when he takes his corner and rests for a minute he is in the same condition as before he started.

"Nelson is a chap who is not easily excited. It takes more than a good strong blow to make him mad. I believe he could do almost anything, under almost any circumstances, and still keep his head. This may be attributed to his heart and also to the fact that he has trained his mind to obey the orders of his brain. "His lungs are normal and perfect. He is a man who breathes with the long, deep breath which I advise all persons to use. His lungs are just right for a man of his weight, age and build, and capable of taking a good hard punch. This is a very good point in a fighter you could strike him in the chest and knock out part of his wind, and he could come back in a few seconds after recovering from the shock with the remaining wind in his lungs, and keep on fighting until the lungs were well filled again.

"His chest is good. He has a fine expansion far greater than many heavyweights I have examined. This alone is due to constant exercise and the fact that Nelson never used tobacco or liquor in any form. He has a thick, strong set of ribs, and I find they are abnormally wide, thus forming almost an armor plate around his body.

JAW IMPERVIOUS TO PUNISHMENT.

"Nelson's jaw puzzled me more than any other part of his anatomy. You can catch him a good hard uppercut on the point of the jaw, and you get no response. I do not think any man of Nelson's weight and inches could hit the young Dane hard enough on the jaw to even make him feel dazed.

Nelson is a well developed man, and keeps himself in constant training, whether he is preparing for a battle or resting between his engagements. He breathes deeply, takes a good long walk and uses every muscle in his body when he gets to work. It is not a case of strength with him, but of endurance, and I think he could last for any length of time in a battle regardless of how strong or fast his opponent was.

"Nelson recuperates very quickly. This is because he is not easily excited. A man might send him to the floor for the count of six or seven, but he would still realize his position, and he would be ready to continue the fight far within the time limit of ten seconds. He acts very quickly both during exercise and when talking with a person. If he were in the corner of the room and you would mention his name he would jump. He is exceptionally quick moving on his feet, and with his hands. He has smaller hands and feet than the average person, but that is no odd characteristic. His hands, I find, are very strong and well rounded. He can double his fist quicker than any man I ever saw, and this should enable him to do better execution in hitting than the ordinary pugilist can do.

SHOULD MAKE A GREAT RUNNER.

"His endurance is wonderful. He would make a good long-distance runner, as he can last a long time through the hardest ordeal. He should be able to run for hours and still be fresh, just as he is able to fight for forty two rounds and be strong at the finish. He swings his arms at all times and keeps moving his body, so that the average person might think him nervous. This is not so Nelson methodically goes through these motions to aid in his plan of perfect health. His body is hard, his skin is thick, and his neck able to stand almost any kind of a blow.

"If he continues to live as he has during the past five or six years, he should reach a remarkable age. I would not dare to say how long he would live, but he should still be a vigorous man at the age of three score years and ten.

"Nelson worries but little. Worrying has killed many a good man, but this young fighter takes things as they come, and does not look into the future with any degree of doubt. He is generally happy and smiles a great dealindeed, during the examination he was very much in earnest, but still he kept chaffing his companion and telling me funny stories.

On the eve of a battle I do not think he likes to talk of what is coming, but prefers to sit by himself and wait, Talking of what is to come might get him excited a little, but it would not worry him in the least. He simply awaits the day of the fight and goes into the ring without a single thing on his mind. He fights better as a result. The man who goes into the ring worrying does not have his mind on the fight, and he gets scared when his opponent makes a pass. But Nelson waits for something to happen, and then he acts accordingly. Then he maps out his own campaign in his calm, methodical way.

ALL IN ALL, A WONDERFUL MAN.

"Taking him all in all, he is a wonderfully built man. His hips are small, and his legs are also small. His chest and arms are those of a man of 150 pounds, and his legs, hips and stomach those of a man of 130. He is not perfectly ; built, according to our modern statue, but nevertheless many of his measurements correspond proportionately to those which the early Greeks decided were the perfect model of symmetry. He is built just right for his profession, and any years that he spent outside of the prize ring were wasted."

This ended Dr. Sargent's interview, and I do not see where anything can be added to it. Nelson is human that is a certainty I never saw him refuse a man a dollar when the asker was in need. He supports his family and lives well himself, and keeps his friends who are true to him. That's human, and if he looks like a fiend to Joe Gans in the ring I can excuse Joe. Imagine how you'd like to be in Joe's place yourself. From Boston Traveler, Nov. 13, 1908.

CHAPTER IX.

Bat Takes $3 Job as Waiter and Whips Six Foot Manager.

After I had been kicked off the train at Hot Springs the first thing I had to think about was something to eat. I didn't have a cent, and the best I could do in the way of clothes was one tattered suit - the old $12.50 boy - that I had bought up in Wisconsin. It was up to me to get busy, so I went out looking for a job. In front of a restaurant I saw a "Waiter Wanted" sign and I went in and applied for the job. The manager offered me $3 a week and my board. It was a good chance to get fed, so I accepted on the spot and went downstairs to wash up.

This restaurant was called the "Ironside," and I afterward learned that it got the name from the tough steaks which were served at 15 cents a throw. It was a regular hash-slinging joint and I knew there was no chance for tips. The fellows who ate there were lucky to have the 15 cents which was the price of a regular meal.

ACCUSED OF STEALING FIFTEEN CENTS.

It was in this restaurant while working as a waiter that I had one of the liveliest fights in my career, and it wasn't in the ring either. On the fourth day I was accused -of stealing 15 cents, and it made me awful sore, for I was innocent. I had a lot of harsh words with my accuser, who it seems was a deputy sheriff as well as owner of the restaurant. He went away, but came back in a few minutes and told me that he had found out that I was innocent and he apologized.

I was just getting ready to leave the place, and he asked me what was the trouble. "Why, the manager refuses to give me my $3 pay that he promised," I replied. "He thinks that my board is enough." The sheriff told me to go back to work and he would see that I got paid. So I went back on the job.

On the next day the manager had told me to put some ice in the cellar, but just as the ice man came in two customers dropped in, and I had to wait on them. The manager, whose name was Bill Ashton, was in a rage when he came back, and he began to abuse me about the ice. I explained that I had to wait on the only two customers of the day, and, incidentally, I said something about the business being bad. This made him worse, and he began to curse me awfully. Finally I told him to stop, as I wouldn't stand for being called all those names.

WHIPS RESTAURANT MANAGER.

Ashton was over six feet tall, and he made a furious lunge at me with his fist. I stepped aside, and peeled him a beaut on the jaw. The blow knocked him flat, but he came up with a catsup bottle in his hand and made for me. I caught the bottle and took it away from him, and walloped him in the jaw. He tried more bottles, but he couldn't get a chance to use them. Finally he picked up a four gallon milk pitcher, which he slung at me. I ducked it nicely, and it hit the table where two customers sat, and gave them the first bath they had had in a week.When it comes to the milk bath thing Anna Held never had anything on them.

Again Ashton tried to kill me with a bottle, and this time I decided to get busy myself. I jerked the bottle out of his hand and tapped him on his bald head.

"I hate to do this, old fellow," 1 said, as we were both panting. "But I need the money." Down he went in a heap.

I was getting on my coat, preparing to leave, when the owner came in and had us both arrested. He told me to go back to work and he would pay me my $3. I did so. The next morning in court the judge wouldn't believe that I had licked that big six-foot man. After hearing the evidence, however, he turned me loose and fined the manager $5.

GETS INTO GYMNASIUM.

I continued to work as waiter at the springs for the reason that if I didn't I would have starved to death. I put in my spare time around the several gymnasiums located in the bathhouses and was in pretty nice shape when things got going. I wanted to give the visitors a line on my ability, and many a hard bout did I box around the baths just to keep me in shape. I didn't care how big the fellow was, I was there with the gloves ready at all times.

After knocking out a couple of real fresh scrappers who thought they were the whole works, I got to be the talk of the town. The knockout of one of these fresh young fellows, by the way, was really responsible for my giving up my $3 job as a waiter. Billy Maurice, of the Maurice bath, had kindly consented to let me train in the gymnasium connected with his place, and I was working hard to get in shape. One day a big fellow named Wagner came in and began punching at a bag. He was a middleweight in size. Quite a crowd of rich sports came in with him, and began talking about his ability as a boxer.

"Say, Kid," he said to me, "how would you like to box a little while for exercise?" I looked up at him, and he saw that I was sizing him up. I shook my head a little as if thinking him too big. "Oh, I won't hurt you," he said. "I will only spar. Come on and let's have some fun." "All right," I finally said, and the rich fellows gathered around to have some fun at my expense.We had boxed along nicely for a couple of rounds and the big man, who I afterward learned was a rich young amateur, was getting the best of it. "You are doing fine," the crowd said to him. He made a couple of light passes at me and one of them landed.

"Now watch me hand this fellow something,"' he whispered to his friends and winked. I didn't hear the words, but I knew what he meant by his actions. All of a sudden he made a wild swing at me. If it had landed it would have taken off the top of my head. I ducked it, however, as he lunged forward with the force of his blow I drove a right-hand swing plump on his jaw with all the force I could put into it. He almost turned a flip-flop, and it was ten minutes before they could bring him around.

I didn't know then that he was a swell guy, but I went right up to him and told him something.

RICH MAN APOLOGIZES.

"I didn't want to do that,"I said, "but you thought you had a little kid to deal with, and you tried to knock his head off just to show him up before your friends. I simply gave you a little of your own medicine, that's all." "You are all right, kid," he replied. "I did try to do you a mean trick, and I want to apologize."

The sports gathered around and made up a little purse for me. They told me that I could give up my job as waiter, and that they would stake me to a good fight later on. Thereupon, I resigned as waiter at the Old Ironside restaurant.

COLONEL ANDY MULLIGAN TO HIS AID.

Col. Andy Mulligan heard of me through those gentlemen, and seemed much taken up with my style and grit. He was running the Vapor City Athletic Club then, which was located at Whittington Park. His friend, Jack Frisby, had a fighter working for him as head waiter, and the latter thought he could stop me without much trouble. A few days after meeting Mulligan and Frisby, his head waiter, Elmer Mayfield, hurled a challenge at me. I jumped at the proposition and accepted on a second's notice. I wanted him to go twenty or twenty-five rounds, but he positively refused to box unless I agreed to ten rounds.

It was indeed a lucky thing for him that he had stipulated the ten-round go, as I was getting to him hard during the last three rounds of the battle. We fought at catchweights, Mayfield weighing 142 while I weighed but 130. However, the aggressive, game, slugging fight which I put up immediately won for me hundreds of friends at the Springs.

The sports wanted to see more of me, and ever since that day the residents of the Garden City have claimed Battling Nelson as their own product. My next opponent in the South was a negro, Christy Williams. His engagement with me is mentioned under a special chapter which is devoted exclusively to the members of the colored race whom I defeated mostly by the knock-out route. No black man ever defeated me.

In a few words, however, I might add that I knocked Negro Williams cold in the seventeenth round. This splendid victory concluded my busy season of 1902.




The Ogden Standard Examiner
19 November 1922

When black Siki, with one -well-placed blow from his powerful fist, knocked out Georges Carpentier a few weeks ago, he gave the French public the excuse for as silly an exhibition of hero worship as the world has ever seen. Carpentier was .long the great popular idol of France. Even after his crushing defeat by Jack Dempsey he still continued to be hailed as a national .hero.. But Carpentier at the height of his fame never stirred his admirers to such ridiculous lengths as the man who wrested the championship from him the gorilla-faced black man from Senegal.
.
Travellers returning from France confirm the news the cable dispatches have already brought— that a large section of the public has gone wild over Siki and is showing, its admiration for him in the most ridiculous ways. The color line, never drawn very tightly by the French, is being -completely forgotten. And what is most amazing, and to American eyes, disgusting, about the whole thing is the part women are playing in it. Many of them are outdoing the men in their maudlin idolization of this uneducated and not at all attractive fighting man.

They dress their hair to imitate the kinkiness of his; they paint silhouettes of him on their skins; they wear black in his honor; they smoke cigarettes and drink drinks named after, him; they strew roses in his path and. crown him with garlands.

Not content with these silly but comparatively inoffensive demonstrations of their admiring regard for the new champion, some of the bolder feminine spirits do not hesitate to fling their arms about his neck and cover his ebony cheeks with their kisses.

Americans who have been in Paris lately say that one could hardly ask a more interesting study in psychology than is to be had by watching the progress of Siki along the boulevards. Wherever he goes there are crowds to fawn at his feet and shout at the top of their voices: "Vive Siki!"

The champion dresses in the most expensive fashion. He almost invariably carries an ornate gold-mounted walking stick and his shirt front and fingers are ablaze with great diamonds.

Since coming to. France .Siki has acquired a white wife and baby, but they are seldom seen with him in public. Instead, he is surrounded by a. little coterie in which blacks and whites, men and women are mingled in about equal proportions. No sooner does the champion set foot out of doors than the' cry "Siki is coming!" spreads in every direction. Soon the little group, of devoted followers that is always hovering about him is swelled by thousands of men, women and children, all pressing eagerly for a close-up of the man with the punch that beat Carpentier.

Traffic' is completely blocked and extra police have to be summoned to clear a pathway through the mob. On several occasions . Siki has had to take refuge in some near-by building to escape the importunities of his admirers. Even then the crowds do not scatter, but fill the street outside, hoping that their idol will appear at a window to bow and smile his acknowledgments.

And the conspicuous feature of all the crowds that pursue Siki wherever he goes is their large number of women. They are as eager as the men to get near enough to the pugilist to shake his hand and hear his voice. A fashionably dressed woman will-lean from the window of a passing taxicab and heap a great armful of flowers on his head. A gray-haired old housewife presses into his brawny hand a-bag of cakes she has baked especially for: him. Others do not hesitate to throw their arms about him and smack him with hysterical kisses.

And at all these extraordinary- demonstrations for the Senegalese fighter the watching crowds show no signs of being abashed. They only cheer his name all the louder.

The whole atmosphere of Paris is permeated with Siki. His name is on every lip, his pictures on every hand— and on not a few legs, arms and backs. The stores are filled with articles named for him and the restaurants, music-halls and other public places show the most bizarre fashions created in his honor.

Countless women are showing their enthusiasm for the colored fighter by putting life-like images of him on their flesh and wearing them continually. These images are called "Siki.spots." They are silhouettes of the pugilist as he looks in the ring naked above the waist and with-his fists upraised in the approved fighting position. They are either cut out of black court plaster and pasted on the skin or painted there with water colors.

The "Siki spots" may be placed on the arm, the chest or the back, the position depending on the sort of gown a woman is wearing. With a-very low-cut evening dress the favorite position is about the center of the expanse of flesh that is bared in the back.

A few actresses and other women who like to be more daring in everything than their sisters affix the "Siki-1.spots" ;just below or above their knees: But this position is generally regarded, as not giving the hero the publicity that is his due.It is rather like hiding one's light under a bushel.

Wherever the "Siki spots" are placed they produce a striking the fighter's black flesh standing out with great distinctness against the women wearers white.

Since Siki's victory over Carpentier black has returned to favor in woman's dress and is beg inning to push the red, b l u e ,brown and other brighter coloured gowns from the center of fashion stages. Even black stockings, absent for three years from the fashionable woman's wardrobe, are coming into vogue again, to remind the world, of the color of the man who packs such a powerful punch in his two fists.

Strangest of all the fads for which Siki, is indirectly responsible is that of dressing women's hair to imitate the kinkiness of his. The new coiffure is known as the "Siki fluff:" To attain what is considered the most appropriate effect the wearer of this new coiffure should have raven black hair. If it happens that her hair is brown or auburn, red or yellow she should not hesitate to have it dyed an inky black.

Then she is ready for the hairdresser's shears to clip the locks to a convenient length for kinking. The strands are closely braided and the kink is produced by applying a very hot iron. The effect is surprising, although hardly beautiful But at is thought to do honor to Siki, so why complain?.

Since the day he left Carpentier prostrate in the ring Siki has posed for countless pictures and statues. Walk into a Parisian department store and you can hardly escape being asked ""Have you a Siki in your home" .Whatever your answer the salesman is sure to call your attention to A wide assortment of framed photographs, statuettes and even oil paintings of the fighter.

Cigarettes are named after him, the strongest tobacco being used as a tribute to Siki's strength. The manufacturer who conceived this idea is said to be coining a fortune. Parisian flappers will smoke nothing but "Sikis;" no matter how much they may choke and cough before they reach the corked ends. In most of the bars and cafes special dark drinks are concocted, Each guaranteed to contain a distinctive Siki punch.

An interesting and probably praiseworthy phase of the French enthusiasm for Siki is seen in the unprecedented number of women who are taking up boxing lessons. Thousands are anxious to make self-defense a womanly art and special classes are being 6rganized for their benefit in the public gymnasiums and private athletic clubs.

There are not enough boxing instructors in France to meet demand from women who want to learn how to handle their fists with something like Siki's deadly efficiency, and more are being imported from the United States, Canada and England.. If this craze continues long the hat pin and finger nail may soon lose the place they have so long held as woman's favorite weapons in personal combat.

An amusing side of the craze over Siki: that has seized Paris is the way other men with dark skins are being continually mistaken for him. Admiring crowds surround them and refuse to believe their frantic protests that there has been a mistake in identity. Often the poor fellows have to call the police to help them make their escape to home or place of employment.

Such mistakes as these must be made only by people who have never seen, Siki, for.his.appearance is said to be quite unforgettable .His nose has been described as being so wide that it almost interferes with his ears, and, his skin so jet black that a lump of coal would make a white mark on him.

What will be the effect on Siki of all this hero worship ?

That is also an interesting study for the psychologists particularly in view of the picture his manager has given the world of .him.

Siki has something in him which is not human" says his manager. "A long time ago I used to think that if one could find an intelligent gorilla and teach him to box one would have the world's champion. Well that’s what I found in Siki “.

"There's much of the monkey about him. He has the gorilla's tricks, the gorillas skill and manners: He is a man who is like no other man we have ever had. Not only does he resemble a highly trained gorilla, but he is just a little bit crazy judged by human standards. He is never where you wait for him; he fools you every second . He is a living illusion.

Yet in face of this estimate of him by A man who probably knows him better than anyone else.Siki is reported to have been offered 1000 francs a night to dance with a well known woman.dancer who is appearing at a fashionable Parisian cafe. And a leading motion picture company has offered him a years contract .at an enormous salary to take the star part in a. film version of Rene Marans “Batouala” the novel of African jungle life which was recently awarded the Goncourt prize.

Oerhaps it is greatly to Siki’s credit that he promptly refused both these offers, as well as many others, which would have netted him large sums of money. He says that he has won his fame with his fists and that he intends to continue concentrating on them.

Siki’s determination to stick to the prize ring would seem to indicate that in spite of the gorilla like qualities his manager ascribes to him he has a far better conception of the eternal fitness of things than his silly women admirers.

Only Paris could be the scene of such a ridiculous exhibition of hero worship, and soon the fickle city, always eager for a new sensation, will probably be looking for some other hero to take the tributes now loaded on Siki.

Nice manager he had, huh?

"Siki has something in him which is not human" says his manager. "A long time ago I used to think that if one could find an intelligent gorilla and teach him to box one would have the world's champion. Well that’s what I found in Siki “.

"There's much of the monkey about him. He has the gorilla's tricks, the gorillas skill and manners: He is a man who is like no other man we have ever had. Not only does he resemble a highly trained gorilla, but he is just a little bit crazy judged by human standards.

Robert,

Any more Battling Nelson chapters?

yes i will post some more later today, had a sore hand hence the delay

Anything is appreciated.

Suggestion---Use the other hand?

granberry wrote:Anything is appreciated.

Suggestion---Use the other hand?

It worked

Story Written for New York World and
Published July 12th, 1908.

SYNOPSIS OF THE LIGHTWEIGHT CHAMPION.
BY BAT,
Lightweight Champion of the World.

I am content. At last I am recognized as the only real live champion lightweight fighter in the world. I have long known that I could beat any man in the ring at my weight, but I have
had a hard time convincing the public at large of my ability. Now that I have shown them by decisively beating Joe Gans, I have accomplished my one great ambition in life, and in doing so I have collected so much of the so-called "root of all evil" that I don't know how to get rid of it without disturbing the peace. I have not been foolish with my money, like some former champions, but have invested it wisely, and today I would not sell all of the property that I have for a quarter of a million dollars.

When I was quite a youngster I read of the championship fight between Jim Corbett and John L. Sullivan, in 1892. It was the first championship battle I had ever heard about, and I remember that the article said that the people followed Corbett about on the streets. I thought at the time that that was as great as a man could get, and I became fired with the
ambition to be like Corbett. Now I have my wish. When I went out to the battleship U. S. S. Ohio to pay the boys a visit, which was anchored in San Francisco Bay, on their tour around the world under Rear Admiral Bob Evans, the other day hundreds of small boys followed me along the water front and cheered me.

"There is the new champion," they cried, and –I could not help getting wider around the chest when the leader of the gang yelled: "He's a fighter from Fightersville."

WOULD RATHER FIGHT THAN EAT.

I guess that kid was right. I'd rather fight than eat. That's the secret of my success. I have lost several fights, but have never been beaten. Sounds rather paradoxical, doesn't it? - But it's true, just the same. The reason for my "defeats" is that I am not a "short distance" or "parlor" boxer. I believe that all fights should be to a finish to determine which is the better man, this is called the "Battler's Route." Everything that fights keeps on till it wins, is beaten or has enough. By beaten I mean unable to continue. I have never yet been placed in the situation where I was unable to continue or where I had enough, and in all of the battles that have been decided against me I am morally certain that I would have stopped my opponent if the contests had been longer. Therefore I do not consider that I have ever met my master in the fighting game.

I have always felt that I would be the greatest fighter in my class. It is in the stars, and, although I am not superstitious, I can't help believing that I was ordained to be a successful fighter. This is how I figure it out: I was born on June 5, 1882, in Copenhagen, Denmark. Nothing very remarkable about that, say you? Well, hold on a minute; June 5 is the
Danish Independence Day, and you must remember that I beat the heretofore unconquerable Gans on July 4, Uncle Sam's Independence Day. Kind of a coincidence, isn't it? Of course nations do not obtain absolute independence unless they fight for it and win, and from the fact that the independence days of two nations are such important dates in my career I believe
I am justified in thinking as I do.

WAS BORN FIGHTING.

Although I was born in Denmark I am a full fledged American, for I was brought to this country when I was less than a year old. My father, Nels Nelson, declares that I was born fighting and have been fighting ever since, and I guess he is about right. That's why he named me Battling. My mother, Mary Nelson, tacked the two other handles to my surname, so I have to go about wrapped up in the disguise of Oscar Battling Matthew Nelson when I attend social functions.

From my elongated name I'd assume that I was an heiress-seeking nobleman if I didn't know differently. I have six brothers and a sister. Al is a machinist in the North Western shops in Chicago; Henry is a blacksmith; Johnny a moulder; Charley is a junior at the University of California and is studying to be a doctor, but I wouldn't be surprised if he should turn
out to be a preacher; Art is a motorcycle racer and recently rode a mile and a quarter in a minute. My youngest brother, Harry, is the smartest kid of them all. At present he is attending the Boys' School at Quincy, Ill, but he is inclined to be a bit scrappy. My sister, Ida, is living with the folks at Hegewisch, my home town. Now you know all about the whole Nelson
family.

ALWAYS STUDIED HARD.

I went to school off and on until I was sixteen years of age, but I was always getting into trouble and being suspended for fighting. My teachers always declared that I was living up to
my name as a battler. I studied for all I was worth, and I don't think that I was so bad. As a matter of fact, I had all of the other kids in my class beaten to a frazzle when it came to mathematics.I remember the first examination I ever took in algebra. It was a tough exam., but yours truly was able to deliver the goods, and I got 100 per cent. Can you beat that?

In the pugilistic game I've had a hard uphill fight to make. I was fourteen years old when I got my first professional match. I was to have fought for a dollar, but instead of getting it the crowd that I was among stole my clothes. The first fellow that I ever beat was Wallace's Unknown. We fought in Hammond, Ind., on Sept. 3, 1896, and I knocked him out in the first round. I was working for the G. H. Hammond Packing Co. learning to be a butcher. After that I fought around in the Middle West for collections, and later I got before legitimate clubs and fought for purses of $10, $15 and $25. Whenever I fought for a purse of $25, I sent $15 of it home to my mother.

"JUST NATURALLY" BECAME A FIGHTER.

How did I come to get into the fighting game? Well, I just naturally drifted into it. You see, when I was young I was not noted for having a particularly pacific disposition, and all of the kids in my set had a wholesome respect for me.

Though the public regarded me as pretty much of a prize ring joke when I began my fighting career, I made up my mind that I wanted records that no one could beat. I've got them. I have the record of the quickest knockout ever landed. It happened before the William McLatchy Club in Harvey, Ill., on April 5, 1902, when I knocked out William Rosser in two seconds after the bell rang for the beginning of the first round. Nobody ever beat that record, and I don't think anybody ever will. Malachy Hogan, the well known referee of Chicago, officiated as third man in the ring.

A peculiar thing about all of the men that I have fought is that all of them are now in the pugilistic discard, although they were at their best when I met them. The beginning of their backsliding dates from their fights with me. Even the great Gans "went back" after his first battle with me, but nobody knew it except myself.

GREATEST DISSIPATION IS DANCING.

After my fight with Cans I think I'll settle down. I have no bad habits, and my only dissipation, if it may be termed thus, is dancing. Next to fighting,I'd rather dance than do anything else. And after dancing comes hunting. I've had my fun at all three, and I have made up my mind to pick out some nice girl, if I can find one that'll have me, get married, and lead the simple life. I've got lots of friends of the gentle sex throughout the country, and I have seen several that I would be willing to make my wife. However, I'm not a Mormon, so I'll have to select
only one. When I find her I'll retire from the ring for good.

There is practically no one left for me to fight after I get through with Gans. Hence it appears that there are few battles ahead of me, and there do not appear to be any men who will come up. I'm going to be from Missouri when I make a match hereafter, and now that I have landed I'm going to enjoy myself. I have eighty acres of vineyard at Livermore, about forty miles west of San Francisco, in Alameda county. I own considerable property in Hegewisch and Streater', Ill. ; and Cleveland, Ohio. Own some mining property in Nevada, and a 32o-acre ranch at O-Bar, New Mexico, as well as some of the best corner lotsin town.

I want to say this to the boys who will read my story : I have never smoked, chewed or drank in my life, and I never intend to. I have fought nearly 100 battles in the roped arena during my career as a prize fighter, and I am proud to say that every one of them was on the square. I have tried to make a record in the ring so that when I do retire people will say of me :
"He was the most honest fighter that ever graced the ring, and if there were more like him it would be a boost to the game.

CHAPTER X.

The Year 1903, the Turning Point in the
Battler's Career Continues to Fight
at Hot Springs.

The year of 1903 was the turning point in my career. In other words, I began my upward climb along that shaky ladder of fame, "the roped arena." My success in defeating second raters in the several states visited had brought my name and prowess to the attention of the big fight promoters and I soonfound it an easy matter to secure main bouts.

I began my schedule on January 3rd, at Hot Spring, tieing up with George Brownfield, and closed it on December 28th at St. Joseph, Mo., where I went fifteen rounds with the famous Clarence English andwon the decision. I went to the post just seventeen times, succeeded in grabbing the big end of the purses seven times, split the deals in draws four times, and
had the decision rendered against me twice. I engaged in three no-decision affairs. Two battles were stopped by the police. The other went the limit. I drew down for my end in purses over $3,000 and picked up as much more on side bets, presents, etc. I fought one hundred and forty-three rounds. Mytoughest foe during the year was one Mickey Riley.

I met Riley for the first time in April, 1901, and lost the decision to him in six rounds in my Jonah town, Milwaukee. In 1903 I met him on three separate and distinct occasions and "Blawst" me if I could knock him out. We fought all told thirty-two rounds and the decisions were: First a draw, then at Ashland, Wis., when I was winning, the police stopped the go,
thus depriving me of a clean win over him ; our other go also resulted in a draw. The many hard battles of 1903, I reason now, were the making of me. I was gradually learning all the tricks and fine points of the game and becoming quite a favorite all over the country.

BAT'S GOOD AND BAD LUCK AT HOT SPRINGS.

The first real fight that I had at Hot Springs came about as a result of my belief that I was of championship calibre. After I had fought George Brownfield and the negro, Christy Williams, I asked the officials of the Vapor City Athletic Club to match me with some one who was capable of giving me a run for my money. At this time Sammy Maxwell, a cracking good Western lightweight, was sojourning there and in excellent training. The club officials were a bit ruffled over my apparent display of "nerve" in demanding that I be matched with a good one, and they framed up to hand me a beautiful bunch of "cheese" and a good beating at the hands of the selfsame Samuel Maxwell.

BEATS SAMMY MAXWELL.

Maxwell was a very clever sort of boxer, his footwork being particularly good. He was up to all the Western tricks of stalling, fighting foul in clinches, and playing for time. I warmed up to his style after the fifth and after that Sammy had a hard time of it trying to stay on his feet. If I cracked him to the mat once I did it half a dozen times. I won easily.

Having won a decisive victory over Maxwell and got the fight fans with me I was matched to fight Adam Ryan, a lightweight, who was in close line for the championship. .On that fight depended my first chance to go into business, and I was determined to win or die in the attempt. We met at Little Rock Ark., on St. Patrick's Day, March 17, 1903. I never lost a fight on St." Patrick's Day, and that gave me more confidence than I would have had ordinarily. And that is saying a whole lot. George Kelly promoted the fight.

I tried my utmost to hammer Ryan and his wonderful reputation into the land of Nod that evening, but the best I could do was to get a draw with him. Ryan had some class then and evidently had seen me fight before. His seconds cautioned him continually not to attempt to go inside, or carry the fight to me, All I could hear from them was "Adam, look out for
his left it's dangerous."

He followed orders all right, and though I punished him unmercifully during the fifteen rounds fought, he managed to hang on. At the finish he had a deathlike grip around my neck and was all in. You can imagine my joy and great surprise when the secretary of the club walked up and handed me $350 in cash by far the largest lump sum I had yet received for one
fight. Middleweight Champion Tommy Ryan was my chief second and adviser in that fight.

BAT BUYS A RESTAURANT.

I had been employed in the Turf Cafe, at Hot Springs, at the time, and, after finding a partner, I bought my boss out and the place was turned over to me. My first business venture had begun, and I worked as hard to make it a success as I ever have to win in the ring. Somehow the fellows didn't seem to be quite so hungry that year as they had the season
before, and the business was not near as big as that at the Waldorf, in New York. As we weren't making much money, I would let my partner run the restaurant at night, and I would go out and fight to keep the thing going.

I .was notified that I could come up to a "stag" and fight Jack Robinson and pull down a little dough to help the restaurant along. It was the night of April 5, and I shall never forget it. The only chance I saw to keep the restaurant going was to lick that fellow Robinson.

When I arrived at the club, however, they told me the thing was just for fun and that nobody must be knocked out. You can imagine what kind of a go it was.

When we were through with the six rounds the manager of the house slipped me a $5 bill. "Bat," I said to myself, "this is no place for you."

BUSINESS GOES TO SMASH.

In pretty bad spirits I went back to the restaurant, and there I saw all the waiters lined up. They had peculiar looks on their faces and I knew that something had happened.
"What's the trouble, fellows?" I asked as I went in the door. "Nothing," said one of them, "except that your partner has beat it and I think he's got all the money." The waiter's words were certainly true. That fellow had vamoosed with everything in sight. My $350, that I had worked so hard to save, was gone up in smoke. I was almost broken-hearted.

"Here, you fellows," I said, turning to the waiters. "You fellows serve all the meals and get all the money you can tonight, for I haven't got anything else to pay you with." They all sympathized with me in my misfortune and went to work to scrape up what change they could. Some of the steaks sold at bargain prices that night. Every cent taken in went
to the waiters. When they were through that place was a wreck.

Just as I was about to close up the door and go uptown to look for another job, a messenger boy came running up and handed me a telegram.

ONE RAY OF HOPE.

Here was one ray of hope. I tore open the message and inside was an offer from Tom Andrews to go to Milwaukee and fight Cyclone Johnny Thompson, another Dane. I had defeated him before and felt sure that I would have a cake walk this time.

But how was I to get there? I couldn't borrow money and I didn't know what to do. Suddenly I thought of my $5 bill that I had gotten at the "stag." I quickly shoved this down in the sole of my shoe, stole silently up Central avenue and headed toward the Little Rock & Hot Springs Western railroad station yards.

The fast train to St. Louis was just rolling out of the yards and I chased hard after her, and in a few moments I had planted myself under the mail car and was huddled over the trucks. Boys, particularly you kids who are perhaps inspired over the success I had so far attained as a champion boxer, take heed here. There I was, Battling Nelson, the hero even then of almost half a hundred ring battles seven years of continuous fighting, cuffing and mauling driven to the choice of losing out on a chance to win money and laurels by remaining at the Springs, or risking my neck by riding beneath the trucks of a mail train to keep the engagement in Milwaukee.

I accepted the desperate chance, and though the trip was fraught with many dangers, starvation and pain, I finally managed to reach Milwaukee in time for the fight.

DANGERS OF RIDING ON TRUCKS.

I forgot to say that before I got on the trucks of that train I ran back to the restaurant which I had owned a few hours before and got two sandwiches. Nothing else was left, and as I had to hurry, I grabbed those.

You may think that riding on the trucks of a passenger train has a lot of fun in it, but you are mistaken. At times it is like torture. You can't get in a comfortable place. The worst thing though is the temptation to go to sleep. I shall never forget one time on that trip. I was so tired and so broken up over my misfortune that I began to nod. I fully realized the
dangers of going to sleep, but I could not help it. I dozed off for a moment and my foot dropped from its place and struck one of the ties of the track. In another second
I was almost jerked off my perch as my foot slammed against the floor overhead. It is a wonder that my leg was not broken. Luckily I got back to my former position without injury, but you can bet that I went to sleep no more that night.

CHAPTER XL

Kind Hearted Old Irish Car Greaser
Proves a Friend Indeed.

The train on which I had started from Hot Springs, and on which I had experienced such a narrow escape from death while riding on the trucks, thundered into St. Louis on the morning of April 23. It was a fast train, and when the snorting engine backed its long string of cars into the beautiful Union Station it was found that the brakes wouldn't work properly. Bang
went the end coach against the huge, steel-ribbed, safety bumpers, and the crash jarred every bone in my body, tossing me out from my iron-ribbed bed between the wheels, and onto the ties under the car. The bumpers were strong and didn't give. Had such been the case I surely would have been ground to pieces beneath the train.

A dear, old grease-begrimed car repairer, whose name I afterwards learned was Mike OToole, happened to be right on the spot at the time, and seeing my predicament, hastily sprang under the car and yanked me out. I was black as the ace of spades ; my clothes were tattered and torn, and I was bruised from head to foot.

The old fellow was very angry, and said he intended turning me over to the big policeman, who was standing at the entrance gate a few feet away. With tears in my eyes I begged the old fellow not to arrest me.

"Let me tell you who I am and the hard luck I have had," I pleaded. "And maybe you won't think so hard of me."

OLD CAR GREASER A FRIEND.

The old car greaser saw the tears in my eyes as they trickled over the soot and grease, and without saying a word he led me to a little room in the yards. "Wash yourself, Kid," he ordered, "and then I'll talk to yea."

While sputtering in the water and soap I told him that I was "Kid" Nelson, and that I had given my word to be in Milwaukee shortly to fight Cyclone Johnny Thompson. I told him of my misfortune at Hot Springs and of my old mother at Hegewisch. He stopped a minute, as if thinking.

"Here's the clippings," I said, and I pulled out the dope that I had cut from the Chicago papers. "Look here, Kid," he suddenly exclaimed, "are you the boy that licked that Ole Olson out at Hegewisch?" I told him that I was that self-same boy.

The old man danced with glee when I showed him the clippings telling of how I licked several negroes down South. He then got towels for me and saw that I was nicely fixed up.

He secured a clean pair of overalls for me, after which he made me "dibby up" his morning lunch. He then showed me a fast train, which was headed Chicagoward, and would pull out in half an hour.The old man even went so far as to tip off the fireman that I was "Kid" Nelson, the great little Hegewisch boxer. I was pretty well taken care of after that, and that evening I rolled into the Polk street station, happy, though pretty badly used up. It was a record-breaking trip, and, mind you, didn't cost me a penny. I pulled out the friendly five-spot upon my
arrival and fed the "tiger" on real steak at my old standby's place, Flynn Brothers' restaurant.

BAT HAS A REAL FEED.

After putting away the first real feed I had had since leaving Hot Springs, I felt pretty good, only that I was dust-begrimed, and my clothes were all worn out, after the thrilling experience of "A Night and a Day." I hurried down to one of those 10 cent "flop houses" on State street, where you get a bed and a bath, all for a dime. I, of course, broke the rules of the house by taking the bath before I went to bed instead of waiting until morning. Early next morning I met my manager, Teddy Murphy, and we went up to Hoo-Dooville, Milwaukee, and came
off with flying colors.

Cyclone Johnny Thompson was the boxer the Badger Club officials had picked to break my winning streak, and for whom I rode the record-breaking trucks from Hot Springs to Chicago. It was my second meeting with Thompson. Since the former bout he had fought his way up to the very top of the lightweight division like myself and was the favorite over me in the betting. I might casually mention here that I have usually been the under dog in the betting. The exception was, of course, in my last battle with the negro Gans, when I went to the post a 2 to 1 favorite.

I could never understand it, but I experienced a good share of my tough breaks while fighting in Milwaukee. I lost several of my battles fought right in the "city of beer." (All on hair line decisions or where the referee showed favoritism to the home talent.) My record will bear me out, as it will be seen that I never lost a fight in Milwaukee to an outsider, but all to home lads.

LICKS CYCLONE JOHNNY.

On the evening of April 24, 1903, the "Cyclone," fresh as a daisy from four weeks' hard training on Iris farm at Sycamore, jumped over the ropes and grasped my hand. "Kid," he said, "you won't find this fight as easy as the other one. Your great Southern record doesn't seem to have made much of a hit here, as I see they are quoting you at 3 to I."

"All right, Johnny," I answered, "take good care of yourself tonight, as I'm in a bad humor; the odds will be 100 to 1 against you before three rounds are over."

"Clang! clang! went the gong, and we sailed into each other. Johnny in our previous fight did not rush me hard, but contented himself with staying away and tried to outpoint me. He did last the six rounds, but I beat him easily. This night, however, he sailed into me from the outset, and, my, how we did whack each other about the ring. I always go hard to begin
with, but he probably had the first round up his sleeve. Again, in the second, he kept up his slugging and rushing. Toward the close I slipped a neat left deep into his wind and he backed up as though I had hit him with a piece of lead pipe. In the third the "Cyclone," like a sprinter out in front of the field in a long race, began to tire and come back to me. Then
I began to shoot over some of my extra special left hooks and mixed things up with him, so that he probably didn't know whether he was fighting or mixed in a railroad wreck. I forced him to cover for the –balance of the battle, and in the sixth and final round he probably raced five miles around the ring while endeavoring to keep out of reach of my "hot punches."
In the last round I got to him, and it was the gong alone that saved him. So much for "Cyclone" Johnny Thompson.

BEATS STOCKINGS KELLY.

Stockings Kelly, another one of Chicago's best lightweights, challenged me. I accepted and we met on May 22. It was our first meeting, and 'as Kelly had defeated several pretty fair fighters, I trained hard for him. He put up a pretty nifty battle for just two rounds. But the fast pace quickly told on his wind, and then I cantered out to put him away. I got to him prettily in the fourth round, and ended his suffering with a straight right to the wind, which was ably assisted by a half left hook to the jaw.

Three weeks later a young man whom many of the readers of this history will remember, challenged me, Young Scotty, by name. We met at Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. This is one of the rights that will live forever in the minds of every man who witnessed it. I knocked Scotty out about half a dozen times, and, strange to say, every time I put him down and out
the electric lights went out too.

His head hit the floor with such force it jarred the building and I guess turned off the electric light switch? ? ?

Nevertheless, with the assistance of the referee and the electric lights, etc., he managed to stay the limit, eight rounds, and to my surprise I was actually handed the decision along with $125, for my trouble.The facts in the case are the bunch tried to shoo Young Scotty in, but I beat them to it. The lights were turned off purposely to save him. Nick Finley, who had won several small bets handed me a crisp one hundred dollar bill, saying, "You done great Bat, even though they turned out the lights on you. You turned them out on Scotty a few times yourself well, what's the use you won that's enough."

Fighting Dane Thrives on Punishment
and Wears Down His Rival.

BY W. J. (SPIKE) SLATTERY.

Succumbing to sheer exhaustion and tireless pursuit by his relentless opponent, Joe Gans sank in a heap in the twenty first round at the Mission street arena yesterday afternoon.
Before he could raise his weary body from the floor Referee Eddie. Smith had counted him out and Battling Nelson had demonstrated that he is the greatest fighter in the world at
the lightweight limit. Gans was a beaten man from the third round, and it was only his wonderful gameness and ring generalship that prolonged the battle. The fight was almost an exact counterpart of the one two months ago, when Gans lost his title. The only difference was that it lasted four rounds longer and Gans took a far more severe drubbing. Yesterday's defeat not only used Gans up physically, but it crushed his spirit. Before leaving the arena he announced that he would never again battle in a prize ring.

It was a great fight. Sensational in the extreme, bloody and fiery from the moment the first blow was struck, the conflict stirred the thousands of the spectators and made mad, screeching things out of the men gathered at the ringside. Although the result was never in doubt, the fray held the interest of everybody until Cans sank down, a humiliated gladiator. What the finish would be was apparent from the third round on. Once Gans failed to stop his- tearing opponent from boring into him he was gone. It was not Nelson's blows so much as his tireless forcing and bustling that wore Gans down. The old master held out just as long as he could and incidentally saved his friends who had bet that he would last twenty rounds. Then he was willing to fade away gently, and he did.

Nelson again demonstrated that he could withstand any kind of punching on the head. He took the hardest blows that Gans could shoot at him and fought all the faster. Every wallop which the wonderful black landed seemed only to spur on the Dane. The more Nelson was punished, the harder he battled. The San Francisco Call, Thursday, September 10, 1908.

CHAPTER XII.
Mickey Riley Proves the Champion
"Jonah" for the Battling Dane.

Did you ever hear that song called "Hurrah for Mickey Riley?" Well, whether you have or not, it was written in honor of Mickey Riley, a prize fighting product of the State of Wisconsin. He was some fighter, too. Every time I hear that song I lose my temper. That's one fellow I never could lick. I don't know what has become of Mickey, but if there is still a fight left in
him I would certainly put aside my great tour and tie up with him again. I want to have the satisfaction of beating him and clearing up my old record. I have, of course, unquestionably and indisputably won my right to the title of world's champion lightweight, but when I dream of the "goes" with this Riley boy I become flustered.

I met Riley the first time in "Hoo-dooville" Milwaukee on April 19, 1901. He won a decision over me in six rounds at the Badger Athletic Club. After the young Scotty win, who should challenge me again, after a wait of two long years, but that same Mickey Riley. I obliged him on June 19, 1903, three days after the Scotty battle. We fought in the same club. The same fight fans were there, and, as I remember it, the self-same referee.

For six rounds we boxed, cuffed, butted, mauled and hammered each other. He was a clever sort of fellow mauling, etc. but didn't possess much steam behind his blows. I was forced to do much of the leading, and as it was a rule of the club that if both fighters were on their feet fighting at the end of six rounds the bout would be called a draw, the official
of the ring held up both our hands. Riley gave me a pretty stiff argument that day. He always did.

DECIDE TO FIGHT IT OVER.

Both Riley and myself were dissatisfied with the six round affair and were anxious to settle matters in a longer bout. We arranged the third battle, to take place at Ashland, Wis., July 24, 1903.

We "shied our castors," as the pugilistic writers say, into the roped arena, both fit to go a long route. I had knocked out Larry McDonald in four rounds at Harvey, ., and fought Clarence English a gruelling fifteen round draw at Kansas City, Mo., the week previous. As a consequence, I was in fine condition. Again we fought every inch of the way from gong to gong, and from round to round. He would have the edge on me for a round or so, after which I would put on steam and batter him up and down and around. I finally landed a couple of those old famous left hooks and cut his eye. He was bleeding freely, and my right wind-sinker seemed to take all his steam away. Here the police stepped in and stopped the fight, preventing me from scoring what I believe would have been a clean knockout over Mickey. The club manager handed me $150 wrapped up in a neat little package for my pains. The battle was fought in the evening at the Eagles' carnival.

FANS INSIST ON FOURTH FIGHT.

The fight fans, many of whom had viewed our other two battles, were dissatisfied because the police interfered, and right there urged that the entire party take the train for Hurley and have the fight settled, for once and all time. Poley La Page, the manager of the fight club in Hurley, Wis., was among the spectators, and immediately approached both of us and offered a guaranteed purse of $300 to fight the following week.

My manager, Teddy Murphy, and I accompanied La Page to the battle ground the following day, while Mickey and Dan Clark his manager went to Milwaukee to attend to some business. They arrived the following day, and, as we had a few days' training, we stepped into the ring in prime condition, ready for the fight of our lives.

FOUGHT WITH SULLIVAN'S OLD GLOVES.

A very funny incident happened, as the club officials hadn't provided gloves for the entertainment through some oversight that wasn't discovered until Riley and I were in the ring ready for action. We, of course, had to send out for a pair of old ones. After half an hour's wait they returned with a pair of old gloves that had been used by Paddy Ryan and John L. Sullivan in Mississippi City, Miss., in 1882.

Of course, the mere mention of the old time gladiators using the gloves stirred our blood up to a fighting pitch, and how we did tear, maul and slam each other for fifteen rounds will not soon be forgotten in the old copper district of Hurley, Wis. After fifteen rounds of the most gruelling, as well as bloody milling, with the battle swaying first one way, then the other, the referee at its conclusion called it a draw amidst tremendous applause. I fought, all told, thirty-eight rounds with Riley, four battles, and drew down in purses $484.23. Just two
years after my last battle with Mickey I beat down the pride of the Golden West, James Edward Britt, in eighteen rounds and received for winning $18,841, besides a $10,000 side bet. I also won the white lightweight championship of the world as well. Jimmy Britt received $12,558 for his share.

PITCHER JACK POWELL BATS FRIEND.

Shortly after this I paved the way for a chance at the title holders by finally cornering Clarence English and forcing him to agree to a match. Clarence English needs no introduction to the readers, for he was a lightweight of national prominence during the year 1903. I persistently dogged him for a go and finally, thinking me soft picking, he accepted.

At that time one of the best friends that I had was Big Jack Powell, the giant pitcher of the St. Louis Browns. As the fighting game was flourishing in Missouri, I was anxious to get a go with Clarence English at one of the St. Louis clubs. I tried Charley Houghton's West End Club, but was unsuccessful. They couldn't see me as a drawing card. Jack Powell took a
big interest in the matter and tried to persuade Houghton to put me on and assured him that if I were given the chance I would make good.

Houghton was stubborn, however, and said '"Nay, nay," to everybody. There was nothing to be done but go to Kansas City. Clarence and I fought there on the evening of June 27.

I surprised English and all his friends early in the fight by almost knocking him out of the ring with a vicious right uppercut. He had held me cheaply up to that, and my, how he did begin to back up whenever I started one of my now famous rushes.

GETS DRAW WITH ENGLISH.

I stood toe to toe with him, and swapped blow for .blow, and at the conclusion of the fifteenth round, amidst great cheering, was given a draw. I fractured my left arm along about the middle of the fight, which tended to make me somewhat cautious, and possibly stopped me from winning by a clean knockout. As it was a great many of the spectators thought that I was entitled to the decision.

A couple of weeks after my Kansas City engagement with Clarence English I went to Pewaukee Lake for a little recreation. Upon my arrival I found Eddie Santry there training for an engagement with Eddie Sterns. A few clays before this bout, which was to take place at Michigan City, he was taken sick, and I, being under the same management, Manager Murphy substituted me in order to save the forfeit money. I was in fair condition, having been training with Santry.

We met on August 26, and of all the raw deals ever handed me, this one certainly takes the cream. We were billed to go ten rounds to a decision at 133 pounds. We had $50 up for weight and appearance, but when my manager (Murphy) and I arrived in Michigan City, about noon, we found that Sterns had taken down his weight forfeit, and, being overweighed, also refused to weigh in. Nevertheless, we waived the forfeit, and I went on and fought.

BAT GETS RAW DEAL.

Of course, at that time I wasn't so much of a card, and didn't have so much chance to argue about the referee, etc., and had to accept any referee the club put in the ring. We jumped into the ring and went at it. Before the fight had gone half a minute I knocked Stearns out, and he was given at least fifteen seconds to get to his feet. Every round up to the ninth was identically as the first, the referee cautioning me, saying: "If you hit him again you will be declared loser on a foul." I guess he wanted me to quit.

Finally in the ninth round I sunk my good right into his mid-section. He doubled up like a jackknife, and down he went, completely out, as limp as a rag. His seconds and the referee carried him to his corner, and he was given the decision, I believe, for taking more knockdowns than I did.

When we came to the box-office to settle up I was to receive $125 guaranteed, win, lose, or draw, two railroad fares and hotel bill. But instead they handed me $50 and made me pay all my expenses, and when I started to complain they ordered to shut up and leave town as quickly as possible, or be put into State's prison, I immediately went to the hotel, paid my bill, and went to the depot about 1;30 A. M.

Teddy Murphy and I got one of those side-door sleepers'' freights"which we rode to Hammond, later walking to Hegewisch, my home.

QUITS INDIANA FOREVER.

I have previously mentioned Milwaukee as Hoodooville, but Indiana has Milwaukee played off the boards. The fight promoters there at that time would have put Jesse James and his brother Frank to shame. The first fight of my career I fought at Hammond, Ind., and was to receive a dollar for it. Instead, they stole my coat and vest and refused to give me the money.

My second fight was with Billy Hurley at Hammond, Ind. I was expecting a bad deal, therefore I demanded my measley little fifty dollars before I would enter the ring, nevertheless they slipped me a package by only giving me a draw when I should have won.

But in Michigan City I was handed such a bundle of green goods that I immediately swore vengeance against the State, saying that as long as I lived I never would pull on another glove on Indiana soil. And I never have since.

THE BATTLER FIGHTS HEAVYWEIGHT.

A few nights after my unsatisfactory scrap in Michigan City, Indiana, I chanced to be in Flynn's restaurant talking with Will Flynn and Frank Daniels, the well known actor. We were discussing the way they treated me after winning the fight, and only gave me $50 instead of $125, etc.

Flynn and Daniels suggested I fight a fellow the "Ham Actors" were boosting as the greatest "What Am" for a collection. They would all donate to the purse. Will Flynn presented me with a $5.50 meal ticket for a starter, and put $5.00 in the hat towards the purse. I hadn't seen the fellow. In fact, had never heard of him. His name was "Dare Devil" Tilden. He was
doing a "High Dive," in a tank of water on a bicycle, as well as the loop-the-loop, so you can imagine the nerve he had.

FOUGHT IN FLYNN'S HALL ON NORTHWEST SIDE.

About midnight of Sept. 3, 1903, when all the actors and a few actresses were put wise to the bout, about 100 of us started for the northwest side, and stole our way into the hall, and in a few minutes we were stripped and ready for the fray, which was fought in the dance hall. The first round started off, and the very first punch Tilden let go copped me square on the nose and started the blood. We both scored a knockdown before three minutes of fighting had elapsed.

In the second round I got to Tilden good and hard, and had his nose bleeding, also put him down for the count. At the sight of blood the women commenced to scream and some one called "Police! Police! Police!" and then some of the bunch turned out the electric lights.

The party all ducked into the "ante room" for a few minutes and lay quiet and wait developments.

AT IT AGAIN.

We started at it again, and again some one yelled "Police!" and the women screamed. It was later tipped off that Tilden's "sweetheart" was the one that started the police racket to save the humiliation of seeing her "future" stretched out for the count.

Will Flynn, the referee, wisely called a halt and declared the contest a no decision bout, and split the purse $7.50 a piece. The whole party fled for the night to their hotels those that were fortunate to have such luxuries.

One month later, October 16, found me again mixing things in Jonahville, Milwaukee. This time it was the pet of the village, Mr. Charlie Neary. He fought in Milwaukee a few years before that, and as the reader will remember several years after, and no outside pugilist was ever allowed to win from him in six rounds. He was part owner of the club in which he did battle. He
has since, however, been foolish enough to go "Outside," and if I remember correctly has been defeated decisively, each and every time.

CHAPTER XIII.

The Battler Describes His Famous Left
Half Scissors Hook and How
He Used It.

In one of the preceding chapters I made mention of a blow that I have termed the "left half scissors hook/' I wish to say right here that the discovery of this blow is largely responsible for my entering the ranks of the' champions. Soon after I had discovered this deadly blow I began to meet the aspirants for the championship title, and I keeled them over one after another. The left half scissors hook is nothing more than a quick hook, which lands on the top of an opponent's liver. The blow is always unexpected, and it is so painful
that it is almost paralyzing in its effect. That was the blow that I dealt Joe Gans at Goldfield when it was claimed that I had fouled him. But we will take that up later.

The left half scissors hook is dealt with the side of the left hand. In coming out of a clinch fight fans will notice that the left hand of a fighter is withdrawn, as a rule, from under the right arm of his opponent. It is just at this moment that the blow must be delivered.

HITS WITH SIDE OF HAND.

Instead of hitting with the knuckles of the fist I take a swing of not more than six inches and plunge the side of my hand with thumb and forefinger on top of my opponent's liver. To test this blow suppose one of you get a friend to tap you about three inches below the right armpit and a little forward. To be explicit, the spot is on the two lower ribs about two inches above the lower right-hand pocket of your vest. A slight tap on that spot will send a pain shooting all the way to the spine.

I have struck men with that punch and they would crumple up and fall in a heap. The pain is intense. Often the blow is not seen by the spectators, and theyhave an idea that the fighter who falls is quitting or "laying down."

CHOYNSKI HAD WICKED TRICK.

I discovered how to use this deadly punch from watching Joe Choynski. He had a wicked habit of placing his fingers on an opponent's breast while in the clinches of a fight as if to talk to him. With the tips of his fingers touching the other fellow's right nipple he would say, "Now, old fellow, you want to be good." Then before a word could be said in reply, by the mere movement of the wrist, he would plunge the heel of his left-hand into the man's liver. When a man doubled up from the unexpected pain, Joe would whang him in the jaw and the fight would be over. To try that blow put the tips of your fingers on any object and see with what force you can bring the heel of your hand down on the same object without removing the
fingers. Try this once and see what you think of it.

As I have said, I was always trying to learn something while a kid. I saw Choynski do this a couple of times and I began to study anatomy. I got a chart of a human body and saw exactly where the liver was located. I then improved on Choynski's scheme and developed the left half scissors hook. Incidentally, this is the first time I have ever tipped this off. There are many fighters, however, who .will tell you it was what put them out.

USED BLOW WITH DEADLY EFFECT.

It was in the early part of 1903 that I began to use the left half scissors hook with deadly effect. Then it was that I began to be a champion. The first good fighter that I used the blow on was George Memsic, and I came near putting him out in six rounds at Milwaukee in November of that year. We fought at the Badger Athletic Club. As you all remember, Memsic was a
hustling little scrapper. At that time he was fresh from the State of Washington, where he had won a lot of glory in his four-round go with Young Corbett, at that time the featherweight champion, and the talk of the universe. George was going at his best when the Milwaukee promoters signed me up, expecting, of course, to see me trimmed. We went six hot rounds, and Memsic was given probably the worst trouncing he has ever received in his entire fighting career.

I won the decision by a block. In fact, had the battle been a few rounds longer, I would have hung his scalp in my "Knockout Closet," wherein hang such famous and gallant warriors as Art Simms, Spider Welsh, Martin Canole, Eddie Hanlon, Young Corbett, with a couple of notches; Jimmy Britt, Jack Clifford, and, to make the morgue complete, I have Negro Gans with two such awful dark slashes as anybody would care to see.The closet contains right now no less than twenty seven well battered and dried scalps.

LICKS CLARENCE ENGLISH.

Mr. English, called Clarence, to whom I gave fifteen rounds of pretty bad usage in Kansas City in June, challenged me for a return go and I accepted. The battle ground was chosen at St. Joseph, where he made his headquarters.

Again I packed up my Spalding fighting shoes, my dear old green tights and hustled off Missouriward. We were to go the same route, and English and his friends figured that I would be easy over that distance; however, I found that I had won hundreds of friends in Kansas City by giving the famous English such a brushing, and imagine my surprise and delight when upon my arrival I was met at the station by Cal Morton and Johnny Webster, the most famous brother Eagles that fly and a hundred Kansas City admirers. The odds at ringside, were 3 to 2 in favor of English. Despite this my Missouri friends went down on my end hook, line and sinker for all they had. They said, "Bat, old boy, if you lose to this fellow we'll have to foot it all the way back to Kansas City. Be a nice boy and trim him right." I did all right, and my Kansas City friends to this day are spending the money they won on that battle.

TRIED TO SMOTHER BAT.

English tried to smother me with a series of lightning swings from the very outset. He was determined to outslug me as well as use his splendid footwork to disconcert me. I saw through his scheme quickly, and in the first round contented myself with blocking and sparing my blows. I did crack him two awful jolts in the wind before the round had closed, but he won the round all right. He came back again and I worked him into clinches at every opportunity. Here I played havoc with his wind and roughed it with him furiously. Round three found Mr. English bleeding pretty badly, and, strange to relate, breaking ground like a good fellow. This round was all mine. I had him covering up, crying foul and doing his best to stall through.

In round four I uncorked my special left half scissors hook, which true to its training landed hard on his liver. Back he went with both arms to his sides. It was now a shame to take the money. I stepped in and biffed him a counter with my right in the wind, which straightened him up. The balance of the fight went all my way. Think of it ! I was handed down $500 regular United States dollars. My Kansas City friends had bet $500 for me as well. So there I stood, or rather I was carried out of the ring in possession of $1,500 a small fortune then. As usual, I immediately wired every cent of it home to mother.

MADE ABOUT $2,3OO THAT YEAR.

This signal victory concluded my year's work. I had won in purses about $2,300, besides, of course, much more in side bets, etc. I began the year fighting for $5. I ended up by earning $1,500 in one evening.

Though the year was ended and I was still a long way from the lightweight championship, I had learned something that was destined to bring me fame and fortune. I had learned to deliver the left half-scissors hook, and I made up my mind to try it out in the next fight. I then went home and took a long rest. I was determined to get a fresh start and go after the topnotch honors.

Upon my arrival at Hegewisch I was honored by being requested to come to the public school and talk to the boys on physical culture.

CHAPTER XIV.

The Champion Has Something to Say
About Managers in General.

I consider 1904 my most successful year of fighting, as it led me up to the point where I could take things easy and have some say as to the amount of money I was to get for engaging in fights. I had finally boxed my way to the coveted heights where nestled such famous pugilists as Art Simms, Jack O'Neill, Spider Welsh, Martin Canole, Eddie Hanlon, Aurelia Herrera,
Young Corbett and Sir James Edward Britt the latter pair and Hanlon champions.

The year 1904 also brought me in touch with a regular manager. Up to this time I had been training and taking care of myself. I had also made all my matches, and had never carried such excess baggage as trainers or managers. Besides, those fellows are not strong for riding on the trucks. I acted as my own "secretary and treasurer," and to this day I regret that I didn't follow out that policy to the letter. My failure to do so cost me over $50,000, and I am not mentioning any names, either, Mr. William Nolan.

AS TO NEED OF MANAGER.

The need of a manager is a very interesting feature of the prize ring. While I admit that some young fighters find it absolutely necessary to have some one to get them matches, the wise boy can do pretty well for himself unless he gets into one of those places where the managers have the fight clubs sewed up. I have known of frame-ups where a fighter would not be permitted to appear unless he gave a manager a percentage of his earnings.

There are many boys who are good fighters but are ignorant of the ways of the world, and especially as to business methods. They absolutely need a manager, as they could never get a chance to make a reputation unless he paved the way by getting good matches and seeing that they were not robbed out of their small purses.On the other hand, a boy who works himself up to the top does not need a manager, in the accepted meaning of the word, when he becomes a champion, as he can dictate his own terms more or less, to the club managers.
All he needs is a fellow to look after details, such as referees, etc. The last man I had to look after my affairs was Willis Britt, and I want to say right here that he is the best one I ever had.

The manager usually exacts a large per cent, of the purse from the young fighter. I have known some of them to get as high as 60 per cent. I think, however, that 25 per cent, is enough. You know that is a lot of money when the fighter gets as much as $25,000 for one fight.

TAKES CRACK AT NOLAN.

As I said before I paid Billy Nolan $50,000.00 in less than two years, and, well then I cut loose from him and went out on my own hook. I have done much better financially since. No fighter can look after the details of a fight after he reaches the position of champion. He must have somebody to stay up nights and look out for any jobs that are about to be framed up. There are a thousand and one other little things that must be looked after. When a man is training he must not be worried with anything, and it is absolutely essential that he gets his regular sleep. No fighter can hold a championship and run about at night.

FOUGHT NINE BATTLES IN I904.

I participated in nine engagements during 1904, fighting 115 rounds. I succeeded in winning seven battles, five of which were won by the knockout with my left half scissors hook. I fought one exhibition with Tommy Markham in the copper district of Utah, known as Eureka. I lost my first battle .with Jimmy Britt, as many of my readers will remember, when Referee Billy Roach, the "Honest Bowery Boy" (as he is called), gave a very bum decision. The crowd present will bear witness of this fact.

The following year, 1905, however, I hooked James Edward into Snoozeville, in eighteen rounds at Colma, Cal., on Admission Day, winning the white lightweight championship of the world."

KNOCKS OUT THE "ARTFUL DODGER."

I was feeling pretty good leaving St. Joseph, Mo., after the fine trimming which I handed Clarence English, and I rolled into Milwaukee several weeks later and was matched to take on Artie Simms, "The Artful Dodger," as I called him. I was not a full fledged lightweight, and was fighting around 128 to 130 pounds.

Simms was in his prime and was rated as the king-bee of all the boys fighting in the Central and Middle West States. We hooked up on the night of Jan. 16, 1904, at the Milwaukee Athletic Club. This club is located on the top floor of the Wells Building, and is possibly as near heaven as I have ever had a boxing match.

Simms during the early stages of the fight persisted in crowding me about the ring with his furious rushing tactics. Oh ! but that was peach pie for me, as he was playing right into my hands as English had done a few weeks previously. I combed his hair a few times in the early rounds just to see how he would stand the gaff. He came back hard at me in the second round with the same line of stuff and I got busy. I turned the tables on him before the close of the round and hammered him all about the ring, forcing him to clinch on every
opportunity.

In round three, which proved to be the last, I knocked him down twice. The last time he was out for good. Artie Simms, poor fellow, had boxed with me at Gilmore's training quarters on several different occasions and, of course, he being at that time one of the cleverest as well as one of the most popular in the country, figured that he could outbox me. I surprised him, as well as the majority of the fans present, by stopping him in such workmanlike style. He was practically knocked out until next afternoon. We were badly worried about him. The first thing he said next morning about 10 o'clock, when he came out of the trance, was "Who took my wife away?" Then he lapsed off into unconsciousness again for several hours. Abe Pollock, the popular Chicago sporting man, acted as referee of this bout.

There is somewhat of a coincidence attached to this fight. You see I knocked Simms out in the third. But still I didn't win until round four. You see the bell saved Art from taking the full count. Nevertheless, he was out proper, and I have him on my record knocked out in round three. All records please follow.

KILLS THE MILWAUKEE HOODOO.

Feb. 5, 1904, marked my final appearance in Milwaukee. Jack O'Neill, the speedy little Western fighter, who was about "it" at that time. By the way, he was cleaning up all the better class of lightweights in the short six-round goes in the East.

As it was my sixtieth battle I wanted to celebrate the occasion with one of my best knockouts. Right off the reel "Jack the Slugger," as he was called back East, crossed me on the jaw with his right and put me flat on my back, though I was up and after him in a jiffy.

He was a splendid boxer, very fast on his feet, and his work in a short bout was showy much on the order of Freddie Welsh, the boy whom I now consider the greatest of shadow or "butterfly" boxers. O'Neill would have probably won the decision over me that night had he been content to have stood off and boxed with me. But no he wanted to finish me in the first round, as he went after me like a shot out of a cannon, and especially after being so lucky as to floor me he picked up courage and went after me to do or die.

If O'Neill ever made a mistake in his life he made it in this fight by trying to outslug me, as I beat him every inch of the going, and in the fifth and sixth rounds he was just barely able to stand.

I, of course, won the affair by a Hegewisch block, which means a mile. When the train pulled out for Chicago a few days later I was a happy kiddo. I had finally succeeded in downing that old Milwaukee goat, and, besides, my airship was now hitting the high altitudes in the pugilistic atmosphere. I licked O'Neill again in Philadelphia later on.

GOES TO UTAH.

With the scalps of Clarence English, Artie Simms and the famous Jack O'Neill under my belt I felt that I needed greater fields to conquer, so I borrowed car fare from my life-long friend, Billy Benner, and steamed into Utah, on my way to the glorious golden West. As I landed in Salt Lake City, S. J. Kelley, matchmaker of the Salt Lake City Athletic Club was in need
of a substitute to meet Spider Welsh, as the fighter who had been booked with him had taken sick and was unable to appear. I being on the ground, ready and willing to fight anybody, even if it was for a ham sandwich, made the match and signed to meet the Spider on April 6. We were matched to go twenty rounds to a decision, purse to be split 60 and 40 per cent. I trained hard for the battle and stepped into the ring fit as a fiddle.

The Spider, as his name would imply, was as slippery as an eel, and, besides being very clever, he showed me a line of straight jabs which hurt some. He was a combination of the clever boxer and heavy hitter. We went sixteen of the speediest and most vicious rounds of fighting the good citizens of the dear old Morman town ever viewed.

Welsh had the edge on me, as I remember, up to about the fifth round. I had, however, shaken him up severely myself in the clinches, and was quick to see that the hard pace was telling on him. I played somewhat of a waiting game up to the twelfth, until I heard the fans shouting "Finish the Dane, Spider! he can't last it out!" Then I got busy and forced that big mob
to turn about and yell frantically for me. I forced the Spider to climb back into his web and in the fifteenth
I hurt him badly.

FINISHES THE SPIDER.

In the sixteenth round I went to the Spider with the steam turned on full blast, determined to do or die, but try as I might, I couldn't put the Spider to the floor. I was sure enough beating him to a pulp. In about the middle of the round, fearing I might kill him, I refused to punish him any longer and appealed to the referee asking him to stop the fight. At the same time William Lynch, Chief of Police, jumped into the ring to stop the slaughter, and to prevent what looked like the ruination of one of the gamest fighters that ever put on a glove.

Like the gamester that Welsh is he fought on as best he could, and when Referee Willard Beam led him to his corner he collapsed in his chair as soon as he discovered he had lost the fight. The chief was just a little late to accomplish his purpose as has been proven since, as Spider Welsh never fought a winning fight, although he made several attempts against inferior fighters afterward.

Since the Welsh fight I have maintained that Utah soil was very lucky for me. First, because I considered that my winning fight at Salt Lake City was the real starting point of my successful career; second, because after my first fight with Cans at Goldfield, when nearly everybody in the country thought I was "all in" pugilistically speaking, I secured a match with Jack Clifford at Ogden, a good tough fighter, who had been the stumbling block for more than one champion, and I knocked him out in five rounds. This made the sporting public
sit up and take notice.

From that time on there was no stop to me. It was one continual climb to a match with Champion Gans, which, by the way, is now a matter of history. More than once I have met the same Spider Welsh since, and by the way felt sorry to think I had checked his fighting career.

While my manager was dickering with the different fight clubs about terms, etc., I took a trip up to the copper district known as Eureka, and boxed an exhibition with Tommy Markham, for which I was handed a five case note.

CHAPTER XV.

The Battler Begins His Real Championship
Career by Defeating Martin Canole.

In May, 1904, I really began my championship career. After beating Spider Welsh I became a great drawing card. Fight clubs all over the country were after me. I was in a position now to have a say as to the terms regarding purses, etc. It had been a hard climb, but I was near the top. You can imagine how happy it made me when I wrote to my mother that I was beginning to make money hand over fist. I told her there would be no more tramping and riding on trucks for Battling Nelson, the little Dane who some years before had triumphed
over the Swedes in Hegewisch.

Beginning on May 20, when I fought Martin Canole. up to November 20, when I knocked out Young Corbett, I did not lose a fight. Canole, Hanlon, Herrera and Corbett fell before my mitts in succession. During this period of exactly six months I drew down in purses exactly $6,800, and in addition to this I made a little over $5,000 in side bets and exhibitions.

KNOCKS OUT MARTIN CANOLE.

After my decisive win over Spider Welsh, the California favorite, Alex Greggains, of the San Francisco Athletic Club, offered me a match with Martin Canole who had made good in San Francisco the previous year by his grand showing against the pet of the Golden West, Jimmy Britt. I was now to take the tough ones ! I immediately accepted and started for San Francisco in company with my manager, Teddy Murphy. On our arrival we signed articles of agreement, the fight to take place on the coast, I was anxious to make a good showing,
and immediately adjourned to the training quarters at the Beach Tavern and worked into the best possible shape for the battle. I secured Frank Newhouse, whom I consider one of the ablest handlers of fighters in the world, to train me.

On the night of the battle we "shied our castors," whatever that means, at Woodward's Pavilion. Canole, with a long string of victories over classy fighters, was, of course, a heavy favorite, the betting being 10 to 2 ½ against yours truly. Despite this I started off to beat Canole. I met him in his own corner at the jump, but he feinted and swung a left on my jaw, and to my surprise he dropped me flat on my back. I thought I had been hit by the Brooklyn Bridge. This only served to irritate me, as I quickly recovered and it made me fight
all the more.

CANOLE "WAS VERY CLEVER.

Canole so outclassed me in cleverness that in the third round such "wise critics?" as Spider Kelly got up and left the building and were followed by one hundred more
fight fans.

"What a lemon this Hegewisch Dane is," said Kelly.I knew I was being badly outpointed, nevertheless I figured I was outfighting Canole. I cracked him one on the liver and in the seventh round Canole practically admitted defeat, as before he left his corner he rubbed his gloves in the resin, expecting to cut me up by jabbing his gloves in my face. That is an old trick of fighters. From that time on the tide of battle turned in favor of the Dane, who, many had thought, had been led to slaughter, and only the referee and timekeeper saved
Canole from being knocked out long before it happened. On four or five different occasions when I had him down and out the timekeeper rang the bell, ending the round as much as two minutes before the stipulated time. In the eighteenth round I hooked my hard left on Canole's jaw and he dropped as though hit with a baseball bat. He lay limp as a rag and never stirred while counted out.

Canole was, indeed, a very hard nut for me to crack at best. He was wonderfully clever, game as a tiger, and carried with these virtues a hard punch, excellent head and clever footwork.

HAS HIS FIRST TEMPTATION.

Right here I met the temptation of my life, and I overcame it. You can well imagine how gleeful I felt after beating one of the first class fighters, known all over the United States. I felt inclined to celebrate. I wanted to go out in the town and enjoy myself. You can say what you please about boys or men caring nothing about the opinion of the public, but it is all rot. I
wanted to hear what they all had to say. In other words, I felt just like bubbling over and taking in the town. I had never taken a drink in my life, but this night I think I would have taken one if I hadn't fought off that temptation to "go out with the boys." Something kept saying to me, and it was like the voice of my old mother in Hegewisch: "Now, Bat, because
you are successful don't go out and make a fool of yourself." These words would keep coming to me, and I went back to the training quarters to think it over.

TEMPTATION GETS A KNOCKOUT.

All this time I had been reading the papers and I had read where many of the former champions had thrown themselves away while celebrating their victories. I was not yet a champion, but I was awful close to it. I had fought my way all over the country and I felt as if the magic title was almost in reach. "No," I said to myself, “'Battling' Nelson will stick it out right here. I will do no celebrating and running, around at nights until I am comfortably fixed." Then I’ll know better.

It was a hard tussle, but I fought that temptation until I knocked it out and it went the way of the others whom I have defeated. Having won out in my mind I went to bed and slept peacefully.

As you can imagine my victory over Canole had made me the talk of San Francisco and the managers were after me. I fought Canole at 133 pounds and the backers of Eddie Hanlon, who was a great boy in his day, offered to fight me at 130 pounds, weigh in at 3 o'clock. They thought I would have trouble in making the weight, but I fooled them and grabbed at the chance. I could have fought at 128 pounds, but they didn't know it.

DEFEATS EDDIE HANLON.

The fight was arranged to take place on July 29, to go twenty rounds at the same old spot, Woodward's Pavilion. Hanlon, game as a pebble and a shifty, hustling boy like Canole, went after me to gain the twenty round decision on points. He danced around me like an escaped kitten during the early stages of the fight, but I soon solved his style and began wearing him down, fighting fiercely in the clinches. Game little fellow that he is, he met me at my own game.

HANLON MEETS BAT AT HIS OWN GAME SLUG.

Slug? Why, that little fellow made me sit up and take notice. He did chug me several mean blows in the wind, and, to tell the truth, he had me worried a little at the start. The kid, however, was not strong enough to keep up his dashing pace, and gradually I saw him slowing down. Then I got busy. In the seventeenth round I started in to finish him, and by the time we
reached the nineteenth round poor Eddie could barely stand, and I toppled him over, winning amid thundering applause.

For the first time in my fighting career, I received more than $1,000 for my bit, the officials of San Francisco handing me $1,250 for my share of the purse. I also won several nice side bets as well. By this time the San Francisco sporting public were beginning to think seriously of the "Battling Dane' as Waldmar Young, one of the sporting writers there, dubbed me after this battle.

Immediately after winning over Hanlon the fight promoters made a rush for me. One of them then unknown Billv Nolan, matchmaker of the Butte Athletic Club, wired my manager, Teddy Murphy, already known as the "Boy Manager," offering a $1,000 purse for a twenty round battle with Aurelia Herrera for Labor Day, Sept. 5, 1904. Murphy, showing signs of a clever
manager, did not reply immediately. He put the contest up to the highest bidder and Uncle Tom McCarey, of Los Angeles, and Nolan bid against each other for three days, when Nolan came through with an offer of a $3,500 purse and transportation from San Francisco to Butte, then to Chicago. We, of course, considered this the best inducement available, and accepted. We journeyed over to the high altitudes of Montana and began hard training for the fray.

I knew that I would be a rank outsider in the betting, as Herrera had beaten every opponent he had fought in the City of Butte, knocking out such tough ones as Jack Clifford nine rounds, Kid Broad four rounds, and Benny Yanger in eight rounds. I was willing to take a chance, however, and went ahead with my preparations. Less than a year previous to our fight I had been engaged as Herrera's sparring partner around Chicago, working for the sum of $10 per week. Consequently I knew his style to a "T" and thought from my experience
with him that I could get him. He also thought he could defeat me.

CHAPTER XVI.

Bat Says Aurelia Herrera was One of
the World's Greatest Fighters.

While I felt confident that I could lick Aurelia Herrera, I was in for one of the greatest surprises of my life, or rather, of my prizefighting career. I had trained faithfully and was in such perfect condition that as I made my way to the ring I felt as if I could beat Jim Jeffries.

On the way I stopped in a pool room and found the odds against me were 10 to 7. I bet $1,000 on myself at those odds, and as that was the largest amount I had ever bet I felt that I simply had to win. We fought in an open-air arena built specially for the occasion down on the flats of Butte. It was in the afternoon, and as it was a national holiday Labor Day,
1904 we drew by far the largest crowd that ever attended a boxing match in Montana.

I want to say right here that Aurelia Herrera was the greatest whirlwind fighter that ever lived. He could hit like a trip hammer and he was so fast that his arms worked like the piston rods on the New York Central "Twentieth Century Limited" engine going at the rate of one hundred miles an hour. When least expected his fist would shoot out like the head of a snake and
down you would go. As you all know, he is a Mexican, and, incidentally, he is the only good Mexican fighter that we have had.

HERRERA MIGHT HAVE BEEN CHAMPION.

If Herrera had taken care of himself he might have been the champion. He was of a peculiar surly disposition, however, and made few personal friends. He was the idol of the Westerners, though, because he could always be depended upon to cash a bet. He had been knocking out everybody that stood before him, and no matter what his personal habits might have been his fighting ability made him strong with the fight fans. I knew Herrera's style perfectly, for I had formerly been employed as his sparring partner in Chicago at a salary of $10 a week. I felt in my heart that I could beat him if I could stand oft" those terrible rushes which were sure to come in the first two rounds. He not only could deliver a knockout punch but he could take one. I shall never forget how surprised Terry McGovern was when he hit him a right-hand swing on the jaw in the first round at 'Frisco. "Why, he didn't budge an inch," said McGovern. "I landed a beaut on the point of his jaw and it was just like hitting a Marvin safe.. My mitt bounded off like a pebble and he came right back at me." Knowing these things I had to be extremely careful.

MEXICAN AN INVETERATE SMOKER.

Herrera was one of the first great fighters who succeeded without training. He never paid the least attention to the ordinary rules about taking care of himself. He was a stockily built fellow, with immense power in his shoulders. He fought in a style peculiarly his own. In other words, Herrera was one of the wonderful freaks of the ring. He was dark and swarthy a typical Spaniard. He smoked cigars continually and kept a bottle of whiskey in his training quarters all the time. He took a drink whenever he felt like it and ate what he pleased. He would go out for a run on the road with a cigar in his mouth. On many occasions I have seen him go to sleep with a cigar held between his teeth, and he would often smoke one before he got up the next morning. But that didn't keep him from hitting.

Knowing all these things as I did I was more than anxious to beat the husky Mexican, for I felt that if I could lick him I could lick anybody in the world.

BAT HAD TOUGH JOB BEFORE HIM.

As we were a little afraid of having the bout stopped, I got over to the ringside early, reaching there about two o'clock. There I found Herrera smoking a cigar and full of confidence. I had not seen him for some time, and we shook hands in a friendly way. He never was any too friendly with anybody, but he appeared to like me even when I was his sparring partner. .

After some delay one of the officials came to the dressing room and told us that everything had been fixed with the State authorities and that the fight would go on. We lost little time in getting to the ring. Herrera was the favorite with the crowd as well as in the betting. Out there he was the hero, and the people didn't seem to like the idea of an outsider taking
any of his honors away.

Finally I got under the ropes and received some applause, but not so much as my Mexican opponent. After the gallant style in which he had been knocking out all his opponents in Butte, Herrera felt absolutely confident and he started out to finish me in a hurry. I fought him very cautiously and kept away from his terrible swings until the fourth round. Up to this time the honors had been about even. But right here I came in for the biggest surprise of my life.

HERRERA KNOCKS BAT TO MAT.

We had just gotten together in a clinch, and I was backing away with my head down. I had no sooner turned loose his arm when he swung a short swing squarely on top of my head. I felt as if somebody had hit me with a sledge hammer. I turned a complete somersault and fell flat on my back, my head hitting the mat first. I looked up and could see the Mexican standing over me with a vicious look in his eyes. He was ready to finish me. In fact, he thought I was already out. But I wasn't. I took a few seconds of the count and then regained my feet.

Aurelia tore after me like an infuriated tiger, putting every ounce of strength he possessed into his punches. He was somewhat dazed when he found that he had not knocked me ou t. I
was the first man on whom his punch had failed. I then surprised him some more by standing up toe to toe and meeting him blow for blow. Before the end of the round I succeeded in hooking my left half-scissors a hook into his liver and forced him to cover up.As the round closed he was hanging on for dear life.

I did my best, but I could not succeed in knocking him out. The latter rounds were all my way, and at the end of the twentieth I had piled up such a lead that I was handed the decision on a silver platter. Not a man kicked on the verdict, and the bets were paid off without a question. Duncan McDonald was referee, and his decision
was cheered by the crowd.

NOW READY TO MEET CHAMPION.

As soon as I could get dressed I hurried over to the pool room and collected nearly $2,500 on my bet, which included the original $1,000 that I had put up. This victory put me in direct line for the championship, and from then on I began pursuing the great stars of the ring. Having licked Canole, Hanlon and Herrera, the fight managers had to recognize my right to challenge the topnotchers, and in the long run I forced these fellows to give me a chance.

With my natty little manager, Teddy Murphy, a string of sparring partners and Trainer Frank Newhouse I rolled back to San Francisco in a special Pullman. My signal victory over the great Herrera, of course, had been widely published in the fair 'Frisco papers, and I was fast becoming a public personage thereabouts. When I reached San Francisco I found that Young
Corbett, who had lost his crown to Jimmy Britt, was in town. I was after a fight with Britt, however, and went straight to him first.

ARRANGES FOR FIGHT WITH CORBETT.

"Go and get a reputation for yourself," said James Edward. "You will have to lick Corbett before you can talk to me about a fight." Britt refused to listen to any conversation at all until after I had tried out Corbett, "the marvellous slugger."

I saw that there was no chance of getting Britt to fight, so my manager went out to find Corbett and see what kind of terms he could make. After a long argument, in which one of the club officials took part, we finally agreed on a match. We were to fight in 'Frisco on November 29 at Woodward's Pavilion.

Young Corbett was then in his prime, and I need not say that he was a great fighter. Next to Herrera, he was the hardest hitter among us little fellows, but he was not so snappy a hitter as the Mexican. His style of rushing in at a fellow like a bear and shooting out a million rights a second were bad things to get in front of. Britt licked Corbett because he was the better boxer and stayed out of harm's way and won the decision. That policy won for him the championship.

CHAPTER XVII.

Nelson Gets in Reach of Championship by Knocking Out Young Corbett. I knew that I would win the championship of the world after I had fought four rounds with Young Corbett.
He was a wonderful slugger as well as a fair boxer. While he had just been defeated by Britt I knew that if I could lick him I could down the champion, because James Edward relied so much on his boxing skill.

I regard Young Corbett as one of the greatest fighters this country has ever seen. He was a terrific hitter, though he could not deliver as snappy a blow as Aurelia Herrera. Corbett was a very smart fellow, however, and in the matter of brains Herrera could not be compared with him.

Corbett knew that the quickest way to get a fighter's goat was to tantalize him so that he would lose his temper and begin swinging wildly. That is the way he always succeeded in beating Terry McGovern. Terry couldn't stand the kidding.

CORBETT A TANTALIZER.

Corbett- would first try his man out by roasting him as a fighter, and if that didn't succeed he would say things that were personally insulting. His opponent would then get angry and rush at him with wild swings. That was just what Corbett wanted, for he was as game a fighter as ever lived, and he loved nothing better than a chance to rough it.

I was somewhat of a rougher myself and I figured that I would be able to beat Corbett at his own game. He was pretty sour over his defeat by Britt, and I believe that he still maintains that Britt was not entitled to the decision which lost him the championship. That took some of the spirit out of him. Admitting he is a jolly, good-natured fellow, in the ring he is nasty as can be. I was in excellent condition, and we agreed on a match, and it didn't take long to get in shape. All I needed was a little loosening up.

Though I felt confident when I stepped into the ring with the great slugger I knew that I had a job before me. You can take it from me that Corbett gave me an awful fight for the first few rounds. If the decision had been given on points at the end of the fourth round I guess he would have been the victor. I was stalling around, however, to find out wherein he was weak. I
finally discovered the spot his wind. I then began beating a tattoo on his ribs, and occasionally I would get a chance to soak that left half scissors hook on his liver. When he would bend over I would crack him on the ear to make him dizzy.

CORBETT HAD PECULIAR STYLE.

Corfoett had a peculiar style of fighting that T had never seen before and if I had not been very careful he might have got me. He would start on a rush at me, shooting his arms out like piston rods. It looked as if he had a thousand arms, and I want to tell you that it was a dangerous thing to stand before that rush. He had a tantalizing way of kidding me while in close
and I got as angry as a hornet. I didn't mind his kidding until he got personal, and then he stirred up the lion in me and I more than paid him back with the walloping that I gave him.

"Whoever told you you could fight?" he said to me. "Why, you're a joke." I didn't say a word, but kept right on getting madder every minute. Finally I landed on his jaw, but he simply shook it off and came back. "Huh, I thought you were a hitter," he said to me in a clinch. "You couldn't put a dent in a Charlotte Russe."

"Say, kid," he said to me later on, "what's the name of that town that you come from?" I was furious and was almost on the point of replying, but I caught myself very quickly and barely dodged a punch headed straight for my mouth. "You've got an awful nerve' he said again, "to be fighting. You ought to go back to work as a hash slinger."

CORBETT BEGINS TO TOTTER.

In the tenth round I began poking him in the ribs so hard that he commenced to totter, but he didn't stop his kidding. He got insulting this time. I got very angry and pasted him an awful welt on the liver. He bent over.

"Jump in the ring, you fools," yelled one of the crowd to Corbett's trainers, "and keep your man from being killed."

Corbett was still bending over and I jammed my right into his wind. He sank to the floor and Trainer Tuthill jumped into the ring and carried the former champion to his corner. He was completely knocked out.This was the worst licking that Corbett had ever received, and for administering the dose I received $2,700.

FOLLOWING IS THE TENTH ROUND IN DETAIL AS SENT
OVER THE ASSOCIATED PRESS WIRES.

Nelson led off with full swing right on the jaw. Corbett rallied and let go right and left, missing every time. Nelson stepped in close again and smashed him repeatedly in the face. Ringsiders yelled to Corbett's seconds, "Jump in the ring, you fools, and save your man from being killed." The Dane struck out slowly putting more force into his blows. Corbett was bent over and apparently ready to sink to the floor, when Nelson upper cut him a hard right to the body ; Corbett sinks to the floor and Trainer Tuthill jumps into the ring and
carries Corbett to his corner a badly beaten man.

KNOCKS OUT CORBETT AGAIN.

I was forced to fight Corbett again later on, so that I could have a second match with Britt. The Britt affair will come up later. All of you readers know how Britt was given a very questionable decision over me in my first fight. Before I could get a return match, however, I had to fight Corbett again. At that time I feared him really more than I did Britt. Corbett was there with a vicious knockout all the time Britt was not. On Feb. 28 Corbett and Yours Truly went at it again at Woodward's Pavilion, the place of our former battle ground. The fight enthusiasts of San Francisco had been won over to my side long ere this, and a week before the fight it was common gossip in the town that I would again beat down the Denver champion. Their predictions proved only too true. Corbett made a very fair showing with me in the early rounds only. I knocked him down in the fourth round, and as he was taking the count I went over to him and told him to "get up" and not go down until he was hit. Corbett was infuriated by my taunting him, and arose enraged like a wildcat. He swung a hard right into my body and broke one of my ribs, and to this day I have a large lump there as a souvenir of this battle. That was the worst punch that I ever took.

The ninth round had hardly begun when I cut loose a series of right and left hooks and down he went flat on his back and was counted out by Referee Jack Welsh. My share of the gate amounted to $3,500. I and my backer, Billy Benner, won several side bets amounting to $5,000

ENDS CORBETT'S CAREER.

That practically ended the career of one of America's greatest fighters. Corbett from that time began to decline, and he has not won an important battle since. Notwithstanding the fact that he had roasted me unmercifully in the ring, I always have had a spark of sympathy in my heart for him, for he was certainly a game little fellow. More than that, he was a real fighter.
He was not one of those showy boxers who rely on the referee's decision to win. Corbett wanted to either win or lose by a knockout. Like myself, he didn't like those decisions on points.

I also sympathized with him because the decision was given against him in his fight with Britt, and I was handed the same dose. Not that I wish to boast about it, but I was treated worse than Corbett. But I will bring that up in my next chapter.