ONE-THIRTY-THREERINGSIDE
title some day; the man who has one dreams only of keeping it until the last dollar has been squeezed out and then retiring undefeated.
It is because of the financial value of this trade-mark that championships are so carefully guarded. It is easier to hale a multimillionaire before an investigating committee than it is to get a champion of the world into the ring with a fighter who has an even chance to defeat him. All sorts of tactics are used in order to side step dangerous matches. Managers of heavy weights, lacking poundage restrictions, often bid the ambitious challenger good-by until such time as he has secured a reputation, fondly hoping that in the process he will be soundly licked and eliminated. Managers of bantams, feathers, and lightweights insist that husky aspirants shall "do the weight, ringside." Many a man has saved his title by starving an opponent for a week before a match. The old-time bare-knuckle warriors sneer at this sort of thing. They were used to making matches, "give or take ten pounds," but, as has been pointed out, they were not business men. The slogan, "May the best man win," has been changed to "May the best-managed man win."
Biddy Cline was a great little fighter—probably the greatest at his weight that the ring had seen during his generation. He was no boxer, but a sturdy, willing, courageous chap, who began fighting when the bell rang and continued to fight as long as the other man could stand in front of him. His record was black
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