Georges Carpentier was once a great boxer. Slender and genteel, he lambasted British plug-uglies in Paris sporting clubs; and proved that although he wore an orchid in the evenings and received perfumed notes in the mornings he could hit hard and dodge adroitly. Last week for nine seconds Carpentier lay on his face in a ring in Philadelphia. At ten he got up. With his eyes glazed, his ears ringing, a cut in his cheek, and his nose oozing like a broken bottle he summoned the wraith of his courage and flailed, thumped, jabbed,...
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