Bill Richardson. 2 9 



is dead; for it disgusted its supporters and destroyed its 

 finest exponents. 'Ramps' and 'crosses' were frequent at 

 actual fights. Visitors to the sparring rooms were constantly 

 importuned to take tickets for 'benefits' which never came 

 off, and to contribute to the collections at the end of each set- 

 to. I ought not to grumble much at the last-mentioned 

 custom ; for after having had a spar with some professional 

 whom I had intended to 'tip,' my opponent, on different 

 occasions, offered me the half share of the coppers, and few 

 bits of silver which had been chucked into the ring after the 

 bout. I need hardly say that I always refused the kind and 

 flattering offer, and that I invariably contributed half-a-crown 

 or so to the amount. Many prize-fighters when they were 

 asked to give lessons, insisted on being paid in advance for a 

 dozen, and then gave their pupil such a 'doing' in the first 

 one, that he seldom returned for a repetition of ill treatment. 

 This was a favourite trick of the once peerless Joe Nolan. 

 And thus the goose gradually forsook its old haunts and now 

 deposits its golden eggs for the support of such admirable 

 institutions as the German Gymnastic Club, The Orion, West 

 London, etc. The cleverest of the clever and bravest of the 

 brave were, as a rule, exploited by rascally (ironically called 

 ' sporting ') publicans who used them as mere ' draws ' to the 

 house, for ' the good ' of which they were supposed to take 

 all the drinks offered or cadged for. A short course of this 

 prostitution of manhood soon made the clear eyes blurred ; 

 the dauntless heart 'jumpy' ; and the hard athletic frame, a 

 mass of diseased fat. Even now, the whisky bottle is the 

 champion knocker - out. Among the unsavoury crew of 

 gaffers,' the portly, if not bloated figure of Bill Richardson, 

 the king of the East, stands boldly out. His place at the 

 Blue Anchor, which is off Church Street, Shoreditch, is now 

 well filled by my good friend Tom Symonds, who is as decent 

 a fellow as ever knocked a man down, opened a bottle of 

 champagne, or layed you the favourite. The stories I could 

 tell about Bill Richardson, who had a very strongly marked 



