One other little man--the littlest of all--must be mentioned, because, in the whole history of boxing there has never been any one quite like him--Jimmy Wilde, called in his younger days “The Tylorstown Terror.” This minute Welshman was born in 1892, and stands just over 5 feet 3 inches, and his weight is, at the age of thirty, recorded as 7 stone 6 lb. The photograph of him reproduced as an illustration to this book, suggests many things, but certainly not a bruiser who has knocked out alone (not to mention the more laborious method of beating opponents) over a hundred men, and who has fought several hundred battles. To see him, in or out of the ring, to observe his pallor and square-shouldered fragility, makes his record seem like a rather foolish fairy-story. He used to give stones away in weight where you would think he could hardly spare ounces. It is all very well for men like Tom Sayers, or Carpentier, to give away a little: they were fine strong men. But you don’t expect a chaffinch to attack an albatross. Wilde is beautifully made in little and his strength is sheerly amazing, his hitting power, not only in relation to his size, terrific. He is a highly skilled boxer, but the might of his blows is almost magical. It is only the body’s weight behind the striking hand which makes a blow really hard--and what is seven stone? Of course, Jimmy Wilde is a fighter by instinct, he enjoys a good mill, he has an abundant virility. His style is a little reminiscent of Driscoll’s, from whom he learned something in his youth. His ways are mainly his own, and he adapts his methods with wonderful cleverness to the needs of his size. To guard blows of a heavier man would soon wear him out. So he guards very little. He avoids. When an opponent tries to hit him, he is out of reach, just an inch beyond the extended arm of his antagonist.