It looked like easy money to the sport and he accepted the bet. After Ketchel had knocked Flynn out in the third round, he went over to the loser’s corner, grabbed up the bucket of water and dashed the entire contents over the prostrate fighter. Then, turning to Porky’s backer sitting at the ringside, Ketchel shouted derisively: “There’s your man! Fork over that thousand.” * * * * * Ten days later Ketchel defeated the Gas House pride, Willie Lewis, at the National Sporting Club in New York City. Both men conformed to championship weight requirements, Stanley tipping the beam at 156 and Lewis at 154. Despite his defeat at the hands of Papke, Lewis had an opinion—almost an obsession—that he could whip Ketchel. He freely predicted that one of his wallops to the jaw would transfer the middleweight title, though the bout was scheduled as a no-decision affair. The sporting public didn’t share Willie’s confidence in himself. The night of the fight there was a huge gathering in the Club, but the crowd came more to see Stanley in action than with the thought that they would see the championship change hands. Ketchel appeared drawn and tired as he entered the ring, while Lewis seemed to be in the pink of condition. The bout was scheduled for ten rounds and Tom O’Rourke was the referee. The first round was very tame, each man trying to feel the other out. Willie was plainly scared of Ketchel’s smashing right and the crowd yelled for action. In the second, after Lewis had put three punches to the head, the champion decided it was time to open up. The men mixed it for a few seconds and then suddenly Stanley’s famous sleep prescription—that terrible right swing—was applied to Willie’s jaw at the point where it would do most good. Lewis went down as if he had been shot and was unable to move a muscle for more than two minutes. When he finally revived sufficiently to be helped from the ring, he cried like a baby. After the fight, Ketchel went to his dressing room and hurriedly slipped his trousers and sweater on over his fighting togs. Then, along with Toby, the hunchback who always accompanied him, “Pete the Goat,” his chief handler, and several newspapermen, he jumped into his big red auto and whirled down to Luchow’s Restaurant on East Fourteenth Street, a popular eating place of the period. There he bought a keg of imported beer and several cases of champagne, and then the whole party, including Igoe, Underwood and myself, started for the champion’s training quarters at Woodlawn. We drove up through Central Park and continued on up Seventh Avenue. There was a fire in the neighborhood that night and the fire lines were extended across the thoroughfare. That didn’t stop Ketchel. He slammed through the lines. A motorcycle policeman speedily went into action, but Ketchel’s car had covered seven blocks before the bluecoat caught up with us. A rough session followed.