The wrong man first is the invariable rule of the New York police.
"Milligan!" shouted Killigrew, as he sighted one of the club's promoters.
Milligan recognized his millionaire patron and pushed to his side.
After due explanations, Thomas was liberated and the real culprit was forced swearing through the press toward the patrol-wagon, always near on such nights.

Eventually the four gained Crawford's box.

Aside from a cut lip and a torn shirt, Thomas was uninjured.

If his fairy-godmother had prearranged this fisticuff, she could not have done anything better so far as Killigrew was concerned.
"Thomas," he said, as the main bout was being staged, the chairs and water-pails and paraphernalia changed to fresh corners, "I'll remember that turn.

If you're not Irish, it's no fault of yours.