SQUARING IT.

NZ Truth, Issue 850, 4 March 1922, Page 8

SQUARING IT.

The Sullivan Business Punch. Not the heat In Boyle's Thirty Acres at .Jersey City on July 2 last, not even the quick-Impending glories of the Demp-aey-Carpentler ruckus, scheduled to begin In a few minutes, could keep the memory of John L., the Magnificent, out of the fight talk of the fans while awaiting the big battle. » It was Joe Vila, New York sporting writer, who recalled a particularly scintillating SuMvahism characteristic of.

John L. In the merry days before Sullivan had so much as reserved/ a seat on the water wagon. In fact, John L. was running a saloon m those days m the midriff of Manhattan., Sullivan's partner, rather, ran the saloon, the fighter's chief help consisting of his name over the door and his championship diamond belt blazing behind the bar. When John wasn't m front of the bar he was seated on a substantial chair on the side-walk curb out front, presiding over the summer evening confabs with his chosen cronie3. Mr. Vila,, then a cub reporter, was showing a Connecticut cousin, still more callow, the sights of the city. The youthful cousin burned to meet the .great John L., wherefore Mr. "Vila steered the youth to John's sidewalk chair and presented him. "Mr. Sullivan," 'gushed the Connecticut cousin when John L. had acknowledged the introduction with the first part bf a grunt, "I met you that night you boxed m Hartford about two years ago. Remember me now, don't you?" "No, Mr. Hartford," rumbled John L., closing the Incident with absolute finality. Sullivan's partner In the saloon enterprise heard from the doorway the brief exchange of social chitchat. The partner hastened to invite the two crestfallen youths inside to have a look at the diamond belt or something, and he then went outside and laid down the law to John L. "You're m business now, John," the partner reminded Sullivan with heat. " We'll never get anywhere if you're going to insult customers this. way. It's up to you, John, to stroll inside, and square yourself with that Hartford lad. Go on — make a little fuss over him." After further argument John L. reluctantly ct>eyed. "Bub,'' the fighter was saying graciously to the youth from Connecticut a moment later, the Sullivan voice softened to the tones of distant thunder suffering from throat trouble, "I guess I was kind o' short with you a minute ago outside. But they's so many of you young fellahs come along that think I got nothin' to do but remember every little whiffet that crosses my path, I could soak 'em. Here's the hand of John L. Sullivan, Bub: Shake!" John L. had squared everything. For a moment he held the youth's hand m his mighty grip, glaring at the stripling from Connecticut. And the Sullivan .voice rose again to nearer thunder blasts as he added, "And now what the hell else do you want me to do for you, you little squirt? Kiss yuh?"