Jem Mace and Donovan by Rob Snell

[Mofo2]

The World

23 November 1896

Jem Mace and Donovan, Veterans

of the Ring,

Shake Hands,

MEET IN THE RING NEXT MONTH.

Meanwhile They Exchange Grandisonian

Courtesies and Size Each

Other Up,

BOTH OF THEM FIT AS A FIDDLE.

Jem Mace, of England, arrived Saturday on the Etruria. There was a time when this simple announcement would have blocked Broadway with a hurrying crowd, eager to look at the champion pugilist of the world; the shiftiest man who ever put up his hands in the twenty-four-foot ring'.

But no crowd impeded his progress now, for Jem has not fought anybody for years. He has devoted himself to the gentle art of how to grow old and look young. He is as great a master at this as he was at his earlier art of putting men to sleep with his fists.

Al Smith, who has undertaken the arrangement of a six-round glove contest between Mace and Mike Donovan, who was for years the middle-weight champion of America, met the old-time champion at the pier and took him to the Gilsey House. In some mysterious way word soon went round that Mace was here. Fighting men and followers of the ring came in by dozens and shook his hand and told him how well he looked. He was delighted to see them and chatted as blithely as a schoolboy.

But occasionally he asked Mr. Smith: "Where's Mike?"

Of course the really proper thing for a modern pugilist to do when he speaks of his next antagonist is to scowl and curse, but Mace acted as if he were asking for an old schoolboy chum. He sat patiently in the Gilsey cafe, where sandwiches abounded and where a white-jacketed youth often appeared with glasses on a tray Seated in an admiring circle around him were a score of fighters and ring followers. Dan Creedon and Kid Lavigne were leading the laughter that greeted every one of the veteran's jokes.

Suddenly there was a stir as a white haired, pink-checked man came striding briskly through the crowd. Mace smiled broadly as he caught sight of him approaching'."Well, Mike, old boy," exclaimed the Englishman rising and grasping his hand. “how in the world are you ? how’ve you been eh?â€. Donavon’s face had about six smiles on it ."Jem, old boy," he said, "I'm glad to .see you. How are you?" They sat a opposite sides of the table. "I'm well," said Mace. "I'm very fit."And you're right," Donovan exclaimed."You want to be well, you know." "We'll make some of the young uns open their eyes, eh?" said the Englishman. "I've been training three months for this go."

The two leaned back in their chairs and smiled at each other. Their glances darted from point to point. Moved by some sudden impulse, each half rose and grasped the other's hand. Then they sat down again and studied each other keenly. Both men are a fine example of the healthy influence that hard fighting has upon a man. Both have eyes keen as a. lynx. Mace's dark skin shows a ruddy tinge on the cheeks that a society bud might envy. Donovan's fair complexion is like a baby's.

"A little thin up there, Mike," Mace remarked as he stretched out his gnarled brown hand and putted Donovan's gray thatch. "Excuse, me, Jim," retorted Donovan, reaching over and deftly whipping off the Englishman's shining top hat, There stood revealed a dark, glistening bald

poll. There was a roar of laughter from the admiring circle. The two veterans chaffed each other like boys. Their conversation was a pleasant reminder of by-gone days when pugilists used to ratify their, matches in courteous phrases and then solemnly drink to the toast "May the best man win," each, of course, thinking of himself, but neither uttering a word to the other's disparagement.

They made a striking picture, Mace is sixty-six years old, but does not look a day more than forty. His keen. gypsy eyes twinkle mischievously, His shoulders are broad and his cunning arms are long and thick. He has biceps as big and hard us any blacksmith's. His waist is slender. His legs are of proper roundness and sturdiness for a fighting man. He looks as though he is good for twenty years more of giving and taking hard knocks He weighs 182 pounds net. There is a funny fat roll of muscle joining the back of his head and his neck, covered with gray bristles.

Donavon weighs 159 pounds.there is no fat on the back of his neck or elsewhere. Any cannibal king would reject him from the stew-pot because he is so tough and stringy. His chest sticks out. His arms are long and they move quickly. In Donovan one finds a striking example of the whalebone type of fighting man. His springy gait excites attention. It would be remarkable in a man of thirty. In a veteran of his years it is phenomenal. As for his age— well! He has said that he is forty nine so often in the last half-dozen years that now he believes it himself.

At all events he was old enough to fight all through the civil war in a regiment from his native State of Ohio. yet if his hair were to turn black he would easily pass for thirty. Donovan and Mace sat together chatting of old times until late in the afternoon. Then they said good-by to each other and shook hands three or four times.They will not meet again until

the night of Dec. 14, when they will put up their skilful hands and bang away at each other for six rounds