brings to mind a boxing tragedy which is a superb example of the hard game and its inherent fascination.

This story deals with another fighter named Franklin. This boy was Walter Franklin, the son of a rabbi from Yemen, and a yeshiva lad himself before he decided to follow a pugilistic career. In a two-year period Walter, a handsome middleweight with a powerful left cross and right hand, with an ironcast jaw and a marvelous body, changed from a contender for the crown to a common variety of Fistiana's cruel appellation, "the stumble-bum."

I'll never understand how it happened. I* saw the first eight bouts in which Walter engaged. He was tremendous. He could take it; he dished it out; he was a crowd-pleaser. Many fans came to see Franklin. Starting out as a club Fighter, Walter soon moved into the mecca of boxing, Madison Square Garden. Having followed his career from its inception, I eagerly watched his Garden debut. There was nothing to worry about. He won by a knockout in the first round. Considering that a few weeks previous to this fight he had beaten Babe Risko, a former middleweight champion, with ease, Franklin was acclaimed as a coming champion. Then suddenly he lost a fight to a tough boy named Cal Cagni. Cagni had hit Franklin with a terrible blow in the first minute of the bout. From that moment on Walter fought on instinct alone. He nearly won out in a battle which will long be remembered by the crowd which saw the slaughter. Cagni won the decision; Franklin shared the cheers with him.

For three months Walter did not fight again. When he returned to the ring he won his first bout quickly. But then

 

*H.U.R.