| OCR Text |
Show COL. CLAYTON, JR., VS. GLEN MILLER, JR. Surrounded by a howling mob of respectables, semi-respectables, bilks, touts, bums, grafters, sports, cappers, sluggers, and niggermarees, the ten-year-old scions of the houses of Colonel Clayton Clay-ton and Glen Miller, bared to the buff, and wearing wear-ing the padded mits, went on for a preliminary before the Gibbs-McCarthy fight, while their fathers fa-thers sat at the ringside looking on with approval, and applauding every blow struck by the little fellows, who should have been in bed an hour or two before. It was a clever exhibition, but there are times and places for such things, Gene Thompson's gymnasium for instance, but not the professional ring, sandwiched in between a couple of knockabout knock-about pugs, and Gibbs, the clever coon from Cleveland, Cleve-land, and McCarthy, the bull-neck from Butte. The adverce criticism heard on every side amounted to an almost audible hum, and while the lovers of boxing admired the little boys' scientific efforts, they thought a whole lot less of their fathers for allowing them to take such a part. A knowledge of the manly art is a good thing to have, but an exhibition of it by the sons of gentlemen gen-tlemen on such an occasion, is to say the least, a shocking spectacle. |
