After it was all over “Peggy” Bettinson said to me, “Carlton, old man, you nearly caught him with that upper cut in the third round.” “Yes,” I said, “I nearly did.” But I never told “Peggy,” or indeed anybody else, that I had really intended missing him by a yard.
Another time I was asked to box with Jim Driscoll, the retired feather-weight champion of the world, for the Hero Boxers’ Fund. The affair came off at the Middlesex Music-hall, and in order to raise a laugh I had arranged with my second to hand me a bottle of Bass to drink in the interval after the first round, to bring me a cigar to smoke in the second, and to squirt a syphon of soda water over me at the conclusion of the third round.
These tactics certainly made the audience laugh. But the actual boxing was no laughing matter—for me. Driscoll hit hard and often, and at the finish I was pretty well done up. Seeing this, I suppose, somebody in the gallery called out for the referee’s decision, whereupon Mr. Eugene Corri, who was acting in that capacity, stepped forward and gravely announced “Carlton is the winner.”
In this way I obtained a decision, given publicly, over the feather-weight champion of the world, by the most famous referee in the world.
This, again, caused a fresh outburst of laughter. But I was lying flat on my back in my dressing-room—gasping like a fish out of water. I lay like that for a full half-hour before I felt the slightest inclination to rise. While I was thus prone, a friend entered to condole with me. “Why didn’t you stop his blows?” he asked. “I did,” I gasped. “Anyway, I didn’t see any go by.”
By the way, talking of Jimmy Wilde, the following true story concerning him occurs to me. Down in Wales, where he lives, they call him the “Tylorstown Terror,” the “Mighty Atom,” the “Giant Killer,” and other similar awe-inspiring names indicative of his pugnacity and fearlessness. Nevertheless, it is an open secret in the district that there is one individual whom Jimmy stands in mortal dread of. This is his wife.
His friends say that when he has been out late with the boys, on his return home he invariably throws his cap into the passage of his house before venturing within. If the cap comes flying out again, Jimmy doesn’t go in that night. If it remains in the passage for an appreciable length of time, Jimmy follows it indoors.
While on the subject of boxing I may mention that I have frequently been taken for Bombardier Wells, even in the National Sporting Club itself, where he is, of course, well known. This is due, I suppose, to us both being about the same build and height, with similar light-coloured curly hair. I once took advantage of this circumstance in order to extricate myself from a somewhat tight corner.
When I was in Cumberland salmon fishing I was invited by the captain of the Maryport patrol boat to accompany him on a cruise to the fishing grounds. These boats carry trawls in order to try for the best fishing grounds, and those on board are allowed to fish on the understanding that none of the catch is offered for sale, the surplus, after the crew have taken their pick, being distributed amongst the poor of Maryport.
Well, we had quite good sport, and after landing I was proceeding towards my hotel with a string of fine fish—a present from the captain—which I intended dispatching that evening to my home in Surrey, where I knew they would be a welcome surprise to my wife and children. Very soon, however, I was surrounded by a hostile crowd, who demanded to know where I got the fish, and what I intended doing with them.