"I dash over to the club and leave Raymond therewith him. The crowd is coming in very good and I am on the phone telling Raymond how good the sale is because I figure this will make Jarvis feel better. I know he don't want to blow that dough any more than we do. I kept calling up and saying: 'They just sold some more seats.'
"And I can hear Raymond saying, 'Listen, Ernie. They just sold some more seats. The house looks very good.'
"I hang up and don't hear anything for a while. All of a sudden in comes Jarvis with Raymond on one side of him and his second on the other side of him. They're holding him up and it still looks like he's dying.
" 'I'm all right,' he is mumbling.
" 'He's all right,' Raymond is saying. 'We fixed him up. We put a stomach pump on him.'
"And you know, he goes in there and fights—and wins the fight. But can you imagine a guy eating pickles and milk on the day he is fighting?"
Most of the mob on Jacobs Beach seemed to consider the fighters of that day an uninteresting lot. They talked about themselves or the fighters they had managed in the long ago. Before World War I Eddie Harvey had been co-manager with his brother of a great little fighter named Owen Moran. It had been a stormy relationship.
"Owen was a cocky little guy from England," Harvey said. "Mention a fighter to him—any fighter, no matter how big—and he'd say, 'I can lick him. Get me a match with him.'
"If the fighter was an Italian he'd say he never saw an Italian he couldn't lick, or if he was a Negro he'd say he never saw a Negro he couldn't lick, and so on. I was having lunch with him one day just after he'd come over here and he asked me who we'd matched him with.
" 'Tommy O'Toole, one of the best featherweights in the East,' I told him.