“Kid McCoy” and his fifty-seven varieties of clothes arrived in Los Angeles yesterday morning. He was accompanied by his French valet, three large trunks, four suit cases and something less than a ton of paraphrenalia of the training quarters.
Norman Selby, for this is the name “Kid McCoy” was born to [photos], was discovered yesterday morning at his apartments at the Lexington. Selby was superintending the unpacking of his effects, and his valet, Henri Foley, was sweating profusely over the largest assortment of clothes ever brought to his attention. . . .
Selby’s heart was set on a certain cream-colored suit, . . . [but] it is not an easy thing to locate one suit in Selby’s wardrobe. The bed was buried beneath an avalanche of sartorial art — frock coats, lavender trousers, correct evening attire, Tuxedo suits, business suits of every possible cut and texture, and the whole was garnished with a bale of assorted neckwear, but no cream-colored garments were in sight . . . .
“Ah, nix on dis business, Kid,” pleaded Henri. “Cheese on dis ice-cream suit gag! Ain’t I been pawin’ over dis junk for an hour now, an’ I ain’t found nuttin’! Cop de nifty gray rags here . . .!”
Henri’s French has a strong Kilkenny twist [Irish accent] and, when agitated, permits himself to revert to current Americanisms.
Selby . . . concluded that the pearl-gray confection would do. . . . This important matter being settled, Selby sat down to talk business.
“Yes, the preliminaries to the match between Sullivan and myself are settled,” he said, toying with a pearl and diamond pin of great cost. “The date at first set was for the 15th, but I have persuaded McCarey to set it on for the 27th instead. I need all this time to train in, and I do not underestimate this man or hold him cheaply. . . .
“How long have I been fighting? Well — er — er — several years. I began in the Y.M.C.A. in Indianapolis. . . .”
Just here the intelligent Frenchman entered, burdened with hair brushes, shaving sets, silk lingerie and other articles of wearing apparel.
“Are you selling out, Foley?” he was asked.
“Aw, don’t kid me, Kid McCoy!” Henri growled. . . .
[After reminiscing about his fights, the Kid continued:] “I think I shall train at one of the beaches, and . . . Henri here will spar with me. Of course, he knows more about clothes than he does about fighting, but still he’s doing pretty well. I find that the French are very apt pupils.
“After I broke him of the habit of using his feet in the clutches, he caught on fast enough. He knows the rudiments of the game, but he’s too careless. He lets people chip him on the chin — people like Dave Barry and —”
“Aw,” growled the gentlemanly valet, “nix on dat old talk! Which will youse have, de cream-colored weskit wit’ de red spots or de pale blue one wit’ de white floor de lees?”
triumphal march . . . [after] one of the greatest battles that ring history has ever shown. . . .