upon any voyage of discovery, never running against any shoals or rocks, never breasting any storms—such a man, sailing peacefully on until he enters the great port of Death, may have a very pleasant time of it; but, when his voyage is over, the log-book is found to contain precious little which is of interest to the world. On the other hand, the mariner who strikes boldly out in search of adventure, who runs his frail craft over unexplored waters, who finds himself often stranded upon treacherous coasts, and who laughs at danger and glories in the hardships of an adventurer’s life—such a voyager leaves behind a record which must needs be racy reading. And even should it happen that this plucky mariner plays the pirate at intervals, that certainly would not detract any from the interest which attaches to his exploits.

A knowledge of men and the world comes only from personal acquaintance with the one and experience in the other. There is a sort of wisdom which is not contained in books. The man who would possess himself of that must tread the by-ways as well as the highways of life. This Ben Hogan has done. He has been a close observer of human nature, and he has made his observations from many and various points. Profiting by what that great teacher, Experience, has taught, he has become, in his own way, a philosopher. He has learned to gauge men at sight. This rare faculty has stood him in good stead throughout all his checkered career. In many of the exciting scenes which this work will undertake to describe, the power of measuring men for what they were worth proved the winning card in Hogan’s hand.

Added to this keen insight into human nature, he possesses a quick appreciation, not only of the humorous but the pathetic. Nobody ever appealed to him for aid without meeting with a generous response. It might appear to those who have met him only in the character of a jolly good fellow—the companion of an hour, over a bottle of wine—that he is not the sort of man who concerns himself about the misery and misfortune in this world. But such a conclusion would be eminently unjust. His sympathies have never been hardened by the rough knocks which the world has given him. And it is this very quickness of sympathy—this power to feel for others—which makes the poet.

Here, then, at the very outset of his task, the biographer has made his subject a gentleman, a philosopher, and a poet.

What! a pugilist a gentleman? A dance-house proprietor a philosopher? A prize-fighter a poet?

Calm your ruffled temper, oh, indignant critic! Let your fretful quills resume their normal, horizontal condition. This little book will not shake the rock-founded morals of society. Not at all. Is it against the law of Moses or the prophets that a pugilist should be a gentleman? That title, remember, can not be conferred by royalty. It can not be inherited along with houses and lands; but it may rightfully be claimed by the man, whether preacher or pugilist, who acts honorably toward his fellow men, who gives respectful attention to the opinion of others, and who endeavors to conduct himself so that his presence is always welcome. If that be a fair definition of a much-misunderstood word, then Ben Hogan is a gentleman. And why may not the proprietor of a dance-house be a philosopher? Is our barking critic quite sure that he knows what philosopher stands for, or what philosophy means? Not book-learning—for, bless your ignorant soul, Socrates himself counted life too precious to waste in reading. Your dictionary will tell you that the word philosopher means properly a lover of wisdom. There never lived a more passionate lover of wisdom than Ben Hogan. And for the poet: Does it follow that because a man hardens his muscles he likewise hardens his heart? Poetry loves to spring out of seemingly unseemly places. It grows in rough soil and flourishes where the sunshine never reaches. Bret Harte found truer poetry in the life and death of Poker Flat’s outcasts, than Martin Tupper could in the whole range of domestic morality. It is not necessary that a man should write verses to be a poet. What is demanded of him is a sympathetic nature. And that Ben Hogan has.

Perhaps the reader who happens to enjoy a personal acquaintance with the subject of this biography, may consider the foregoing as pretty steep flattery, not to say amazing nonsense. Let him remember, however, that the luxury of getting up a book about oneself is expensive; and certainly a man has a right to order that written which pleases him best. Mr. Hogan has availed himself of this privilege. He desires the world to know how great a man he is. He wants all his illustrious deeds embalmed in print. If, after reading this volume it shall occur to the world that Mr. Hogan is deceived with respect to himself; that he is not a great man at all, and that his illustrious deeds ought long ago to have landed him in prison—if the world, I repeat, shall come to any such conclusion as this, why, then it must settle accounts with Mr. Hogan himself. Greatness has been unappreciated before now, and it is possible that some will fail to understand why a man should voluntarily proclaim himself to be “The Wickedest Man in the World.”

THE “SAILOR BOY” PUNISHES HIS ADVERSARY.

THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
BEN HOGAN:
THE WICKEDEST MAN IN THE WORLD.

CHAPTER I.

Early Life—Arrival in America—How he Avenged the Robbery of his Father—Mysterious Disappearance of the Old Jew—In the House of Refuge—Seafaring Life—Beginning of his Boxing Career.

Benedict Hagan, whose name has become familiar in the altered form of Hogan, is a native of Würtemberg, Germany. With his parents, he immigrated to this country at the age of eleven years.

His father was a cabinet-maker by trade, who had saved up something like a thousand dollars, with which he set forth to better his condition in the New World. Along with his family, he arrived in New York in the summer of 1852. His reception was not of the most encouraging nature, and an incident which occurred almost immediately after the landing of the family will serve to show the character of Hogan at that time.

As was customary with all emigrants who had any money to carry, the elder Hogan had secured his fortune, amounting to eight hundred dollars in gold, in a belt fastened about his shoulders. When he walked out of Castle Garden he was forthwith set upon by a Hebrew of the South street order, whose nose resembled his nature, because it was sharp. This enterprising Jew, who spoke German fluently, induced the emigrant to go into a small shop where everything was given away—for four times its value. The unsuspecting Hogan made a small purchase, and when he came to pay for it, disclosed the bag containing his gold. The sight was enough to rouse the Hebrew. Precisely how it happened he did not know; but in an amazingly short time Hogan senior found himself relieved of his eight hundred dollars.

Had it not been for the presence of young Ben, it may be safely assumed that the emigrant would never have gone forth from the Jew’s place alive. The boy, however, presented an obstacle to the commission of murder, which was undoubtedly intended by the robbers. They