When Stanley tried to get the car in motion again, the cop threatened him. We were expecting a free-for-all when Underwood and I flashed our police cards and explained to the officer that Ketchel had just stopped Willie Lewis and was eager to get back to his training quarters at Woodlawn. “I know Ketchel,” the cop said rather gruffly. “What are you trying to put over on me?” It required considerable proof before the officer would be convinced, but when he was, instead of arresting us for violating the fire laws, he paved the way for Ketchel’s party for about a mile, and then, with a hearty handshake, bid Stanley good night. Arriving at the Inn some time after midnight, the champion aroused the occupants and set up the drinks and a fine supper. He even sent “Pete the Goat” and Toby clear up to Yonkers to drag the bartender out of bed and down to the Inn to help the celebration by playing the violin. Unfortunately, the bartender could play only two tunes—“The Wearing O’ The Green” and “Where The River Shannon Flows”—and these he repeated over and over again. * * * * * Ketchel was superstitious and believed in signs. If someone threw a hat on his bed or opened an umbrella in the camp quarters, he’d throw a fit. He invariably made it a point to shake hands with all his seconds before the bell sounded to start a fight, and “Pete the Goat” was always the last one whose hand he’d grasp. Old timers will remember little Toby. Stanley wouldn’t go into the ring unless Toby was in the building and somewhere near his corner. Although a man of whims, Ketchel made friends easily. He was bashful to an extraordinary degree—almost, at times, to the point of timidity. In conversation with newly arrived writers or visitors to his camp, he would speak in monosyllables, but once he became thoroughly acquainted, he was one of the gang. The transformation was almost electric. He never wasted time on press agents, nor did he make any reservations as to the color, weight or reputation of his opponents. He was ever ready to meet all comers, yet his lazy, easy-going way of pulling away from a punch, and the fact that his handsome features were unmarred to the end of his days, was proof that his opponents didn’t hit him as often as they appeared to. Stories have been written about Ketchel’s lack of nerve. I wish that the fellow who started that canard could have been in his camp on the day or night before a fight, for this ordinarily good-natured and frolicsome man would become as sour and crabbed as a wounded grizzly bear. All of us took great pains to keep out of his way, for he would have a fit of temper at the least provocation.