John L. Sullivan Comes to Olympia, and the City Council Adjourns for the Show

John Lawrence Sullivan, the mighty champion of champions, and John Miller Murphy, the greatest theatrical manager of the Pacific Coast, were the happiest men in Olympia last evening. John L. knocked out bursts of admiration from the audience by the exhibition of his splendid physique and bad acting, and John M. knocked out about $500 over and above expenses from the pockets of the delighted people of Olympia, Tumwater, Mud Bay, Bucoda, Tenino, Gull Harbor and the surrounding country. When John L. arrived on the train last night about 100 boys and men were at the depot, including Manager Murphy. Cheers went up for the champion as he stepped off the train and asked for a copy of The Tribune to see if Slavin or Mitchell or “any of them duffers” had accepted his manager’s proposition in New York to fight for $25,000 and the championship of the world once again. John L. and John M., together with the company, went to the Olympia Hotel, where the champion entered the names of the company on the hotel register himself. Landlord Whitney is going to have this page photographed and framed.

“Johnny, old man,” said the great fighter to John Miller Murphy, “me and you ought to be good friends. I’m going to crowd your opera house for you tonight. How many will she hold?”

“About a thousand,” said the smiling manager, “that is when we have good companies; here, like yours,” he added.

“You bet your sweet life we’ve got a good company,” replied the champion, “and I’ll fill the house, d’ye see?” Then John L. winked at John M. and with a side nudge said, “Say, old man, where’s the bar?” Both Johns then retired below.

Promptly at 8:30 the curtain went up at the theater before the largest audience ever assembled in the Olympia Theater—mostly males. It was not a quiet audience; the boys were there for fun and they had as much of it as the actors in “Honest Hearts and Willing Hands,” a play built around the muscles of John L.’s mighty arm. The play was “in five rounds,” and at the end of the third round, where John L. kills Jack Ashton, there was a shout that went up from the audience and could be heard at Black Lake. The splendid frame of the Boston gladiator was “the cynosure of all eyes,” and at all times during the thrilling melodrama the play was [the main attraction] when the great man was on the stage, which was in every act of the play except one.

Manager John Miller Murphy, who had stated some days before that the city council, which was to meet last night, would adjourn to see John L., kept his word. The city council adjourned, and the mayor and nearly all the members were at the show. During the evening Manager Murphy and the champion held a levee behind the scenes. John Miller introduced the mayor, city councilmen and police force to the distinguished John Lawrence, and the relative sporting merits of Olympia and Astoria, bulldogs, cocks and sporting men were discussed.

“Me and you ought to come together next season, old man,” said Sullivan to Murphy during the conversation. “How would you like to take me around the country in my new play? I think you could soak enough away to build a brick opera house at the end of the season. I tell you, I’m stuck on you.”

“What is the name of your new play?” asked Manager Murphy, who was still smiling.

“The Boston Boy, or Muscle Wins Always.” “We could get Dunc Harrison to write us a small farce called ‘The Two Johns,’ which the rest of the gang could play as an afterpiece. This would relieve me somewhat from the strain that’s put on me from this acting. I tell you I’m getting gray on it. There isn’t active life enough in it for me; what d’ye say, Murphy, will you go with me?”

“I’ll think it over,” said the ex-councilman.

Just then John L.’s cue was announced, and the champion rushed upstairs to again set the audience in a roar as he appeared before the footlights.

Before the champion and his companions went away from the capital of the state, he was seen by a reporter of The Tribune, who said to him:

“I understand, Mr. Sullivan, that you have been lately applying yourself to the intricacies of the higher branches of mathematics, your favorite fad?”

“Yes,” said the champion. “In that science is differential calculus, and the squaring of the circle is easily and definitely demonstrated by the rigging of the ring, in which all pugilists punch for a prize.”

“That you understand,” he elucidated, “is on the square.”

“Thanks,” said the reporter as he shook hands with John and bade him good-bye.