A rotund little Frenchman, perspiring, slovenly, excited as a baker chasing stolen buns, rushed, dithering and gesticulating about the prize ring in the Polo Grounds, Manhat- tan. In frothing, broken accents he screamed at the referee, judges and journalists, crowded about below him, that foul play was at hand. For proof, he pointed to a sagging figure who staggered weakly over the boards, doubled up with pain. He grabbed at the staggerer's blue silk shorts, tried to rip them off and expose dire injury. This demented man was null Descamps, Manager of Georges Carpentier,...
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