When Alger was writing his all-American-brave-youth-yarns, prize fighting was an illegal game, and its principals were entirely beyond the pale of politeness. Later we had the Frank Merriwell stories, also with an “up-from-the-depths” motif, but permitting heroes to win fame and dollars as stars of baseball, football, and other athletic pastimes. That meant that the literary bars were being let down a trifle; and in the due course of time, magazine editors began featuring the exploits of two-fisted lads successfully wooing Dame Fortune with the aid of padded gloves. Today it’s a far different sport atmosphere from the time when W. Warren Barbour, one of the cleverest, hardest-hitting amateurs that ever answered the sound of a gong, was being importuned by fight promoters to turn professional and meet the great Negro boxer, Jack Johnson, for the world heavyweight championship. Barbour might have done so had he not been born the son of Colonel William Barbour, wealthy New York thread merchant. In 1910 I saw Barbour win the amateur heavyweight crown in Boston. Boxing, while it had attained semi-legal status, was still not a career likely to be followed by the son of a multimillionaire of high social standing. Had Warren been poor in this world’s goods, he would have been a sure-fire pickup for some astute manager hoping to steer him to the professional championship goal. And that was exactly what the young athlete would have liked. It was also what several of America’s leading promoters were eager to see, because of Barbour’s popularity and knowledge of ring science. However, the Alger-Merriwell build-up didn’t apply in his case. There was no social climbing needed, no struggle necessary to score success in a quest for the almighty dollar; he was already sitting on top of the world. Yet he told me in an interview at a Princeton football game that, if he had been left to himself, nothing would have pleased him more than to have entered the professional ring. I heard Warren Barbour repeat that during a fistic gabfest with Phocian Howard, publisher of racing sheets, while en route to the Dempsey-Willard battle at Toledo on July 4, 1919. Tex Rickard had selected the ex-amateur heavyweight champ to act as official timekeeper for that historic event. That was the only time he associated himself with the professional game. Parental opposition was the real cause for his refusal to listen to the siren songs of the fight promoters who wanted to capitalize on his scientific skill and punching power. Perhaps it was just as well, for Jack Johnson was then in his prime, and no matter how good an amateur may be, it is always a considerable risk to pit him against an experienced pro, even one of second rate standing. And Johnson was not only a first-rater, but stood head-and-shoulders over all his pugilistic contemporaries.