William Cawood was a large man—a man of means, a man of dignity, ideas, and mutton-chops. In England he was a contractor and builder—and a good one, too, it was said. Here, he built his meat-market, and his residence, his horse stable, his cow barn, and his pig sty, all under one roof. The structure, founded upon pine studding set in the ground, was on the alley end of four lots north of Third Street and west of Kansas Avenue. The boys at school across the street to the east thought a new telegraph line was coming to town. In later years, wondering if my memory had served me well, I asked Prince Cawood if it were true that those studding were set in the ground? He said, “Every one of them.” Walter Cawood was a large man like his father. He played an important part in the making of this story—or rather this incident. An outstanding episode of the early days was a free-for-all fight on the main street in Wetmore, with Colonists predominating. It was the year 1870—maybe 1871. Can’t be sure about the exact time. That brawl is recorded in local history as “English Boxing Day”—though in England, the day after Christmas is known as Boxing Day, This one occurred on a muggy summer day. At this time Wetmore’s main street was flanked with three buildings on the south side, and four on the north side, in blocks one and four—all well toward the west end. Lush prairie grass still grew on the east half of those two blocks. A long hitchrack was in the center of the ungraded street. I do not recall what it was that started the fight. Perhaps it was the old Colony hatred, refreshed by drink. Those Colonists were continually fussing among themselves. A little fellow with a piping voice—I think it might have been Bilby—led off by striking a brother Englishman on the mug. He yelled, “Tike that, you bloody blighter!” They were on the south side of the street in front of John Clifton’s saloon. The little fellow started to run away. He dodged under the hitchrack and stumbled in the street almost in front of my father’s shoeshop on the north side. The big man who had taken the rap on the face was soon upon the little runt. Then multitudinous inebriated Englishmen, and at least one German—Bill Liebig—fell in without waiting for an invitation. It was a battle royal—everybody hitting somebody, anybody. Blood and blasphemous epithets, in awkward delivery, flowed freely. When the battle had run its course a dozen men, maybe more, were prone upon the ground. A stocky little woman came out of the saloon and met the bruised and bleeding aggressor. “Hi ‘opes,” she said, “you’re now sart-isfied—my cocky little man. Been spoilin’ for a fight this long time.”