very well
once went to a boxing-match in San Francisco. Women are forbidden to
attend such events, so that a special permission had to be obtained
for her. She was warned beforehand that the audience might manifest its
disapproval in terms both audible and uncomplimentary. She entered
the arena in considerable trepidation of spirit. It was an important
match--for the lightweight championship of the world. She occupied a
ring-side box where, it is likely, everybody saw her. There were ten
thousand men in the arena and she was the only woman. But in all the
two hours she sat there, she was not once made conscious, by a word or
glance in her direction, that anybody had noticed her presence. That I
think is a perfect example of perfect mob-manners.

Perhaps that instinct, not only for fair but for chivalrous play, which
also characterizes the Native Son, comes from pioneer days. Certainly it
is deepened by a very active interest in all kinds of sports. I draw
my two examples of this from the boxing world. This is a story that Sam
Berger tells about Andrew Gallagher.

It happened in that period when both men were amateur lightweights and
Mr. Gallagher was champion of the Pacific Coast. Mr. Berger challenged
Mr. Gallagher and defeated him. The margin of victory was so narrow,
however, that Mr. Gallagher felt justified in as asking for another
match, and got it.

This time Mr. Berger's victory was complete. In a letter, Mr. Berger
said, "A woman cannot possibly understand what being a champion means to
a man. It isn't so much the championship itself but it's the slap on
the shoulder and the whispered comment as you pass, 'There goes our
champion!' that counts. Looking back at it from the thirties, it isn't
so important; but in the twenties it means a lot. My dressing room was
near Gallagher's, so that, although he didn't know this, I could not
help overhearing much that was said there. After we got back to our
rooms, I heard some friend of Gallagher's refer to me as 'a damn Jew'.
What was my delight at Gallagher's magnanimity to hear him answer, 'Why
do you call him a damn Jew? He is a very fine fellow and a better boxer
than me, the best day I ever saw.'"

That incident seems to me typical of the Native Son; and the long
unbroken friendship that grew out of it, equally so.

A few years ago an interview with Willie Ritchie appeared in a New York
paper. He had just boxed Johnny Dundee, defeating him. In passing I may
stat