If there was fun in it, there was also some embarrassment attached to it. The male sex is not the only one which admires physical prowess, and ladies, escorted by gentlemen, appeared quite frequently at this newly founded shrine of pugilistic worship.
I cannot recollect having ever been so confused as I was on a certain night when I was cast for the rôle of Jake Kilrain, the man who tried to wrest the heavyweight championship from the redoubtable John L. Sullivan. In my limited but appreciative audience were several ladies.
A short while after my introduction I noticed a lot of whispering among the ladies. One, the spokeswoman, stepped over to me and presented the guest of the others.
"Oh, Mr. Kilrain, you must have a perfectly developed arm and chest. They are necessary in your profession, are they not? And may we not have the privilege of testing your strength?"
Before I fully realized what they intended to do they had gathered around me and with many "oh's" and "oh, my's" they began to feel my biceps and to prod me in the chest.
Of course, this was only an odd occurrence, and did not happen every night, but it did not help me to respect my "betters."
It was also very embarrassing when, at the same time, I had to "double" and even "treble." As an illustration, just let me tell you that in one evening, and at the same time, I represented Jack McAuliffe at the head of the bar, Mike Boden at the end of it, and Johnny Reagan in the back-room—all well-known pugilists and champions in their class. My audiences were especially annoying that night, holding me down to dates and details and keeping me on the edge of apprehension lest I should mix my identities.
Also, on a certain auspicious occasion, while portraying a certain renowned pugilist with admirable accuracy, the said pugilist happened to appear on the scene in person and it was only his true friendship for me which prevented the imitation ending in a fizzle, if not worse.
Now, when all that lies behind me and belongs to a different world and personality, I cannot fail to see the wrongness of it, but, at the time of its happening, I cannot deny having often laughed heartily at the silliness of those gaping curiosity-seekers.
Later, when on account of a disagreement with Steve Brodie, I transferred my headquarters to the palace of the king—Barney Flynn, the King of the Bowery—at the corner of Pell street and the Bowery, we instituted another fraudulent scheme intended to interest and entertain our many friends and provide drink and small change for us.