When the Philadelphia put in at Vallejo it was not my idea to get into the ring at once. I remembered what Tom James told me about there being great fighters in California, and I wanted to see some of them in action before I tried my hand.
       However,  I got into the ring quicker than I figured on. On board the Philadelphia there was a fellow, whose name I cannot now recall, who had taken a violent dislike to me. He wanted to see me whipped in Honolulu, and when on our arrival at Vallejo he was transferred to the ship Olympic he grew more bitter than ever. He kept telling everybody that before he finished he would see Tom Sharkey knocked cold.

MEETS OLD-TIMER
       This fellow kept nosing around and finally dug up a man called Sailor Brown. This Brown, so we learned, was no "sucker". He had been at one time the heavyweight champion of the American navy, one of the first it ever had, and was good enough to have boxed Peter Jackson, when the great negro first came to America.

       Brown, who had just come in from a long cruise in the Arctic ocean, was spoiling for a fight, and when my friend"on the Olympic approached and asked him to take me on he just jumped at the chance.
   
 WINS IN SECOND                  
       We met in Vallejo, at Armory hall, which was rented for the occasion by Tim Sheehan.

       Brown didn't give me much trouble. I busted him so hard in the first round that I thought he would snap the ropes. In the second round I gave him a few cuffs and it was all over.

       Then the friend over on the Olympic dug up Jim Dunn to fight me. Jim was as big a man as Jess Willard, six foot four, a fine looking big fellow. His friends wanted to bet $1000 on him.

       I will stop here and explain that my backer-in-chief from the start was Paul Herman, chief boatswain's mate on the Philadelphia. He put up his own money and collected that which the other sailors wanted to bet on me - ten and twenty dollar pieces.

       The $1000 was made up and placed in Herman's hands to cover that of Dunn's friends. We met at Armory hall.

WORLD'S RECORD            
       Several fighters claim the world's record for quick finishes. But that affair of mine with Dunn was pretty near the limit for brevity. It lasted 26 seconds flat.

      When the bell tapped I took a hop, step and a jump. A right-hand overhead swing which I'd started from my corner landed flush on the chin. Persons who were holding watches told me that it was exactly sixteen seconds from the time the gong sounded until the referee began counting. The other ten seconds were consumed in counting Dunn out.

       My quick win over Dunn created quite a little talk in San Francisco. About that time there was a big, tough fellow hanging around named Martin Mulvihill. Mulvihill hailed from Hayward, Cal., and he had told certain friends that if he got the fights it was only a matter of a short time when he would be world's champion.

SHARKEY CHALLENGED
       These friends told Mulvihill about me, but they told him also that I was rather backward about going against men of reputation, and that he would have to trick me into a fight.

       One day when a crowd of us from the Philadelphia were standing in Tim Sheehan's saloon, the door opened and in walked a fellow in a blue shirt and overalls. He looked like a rube just out of the hay field, and, we soon saw, was looking for trouble.  

       "Say," he said, addressing one of the sailors, "you from the Philadelphia?"

       The sailor said that he was.

       "Well," said the fellow, my name is Mulvihill - Martin Mulvihill - and I can lick anything on two legs."

       The sailor began looking toward me. It was just like the man had come in and slapped me.

       "I understand," the fellow continued, "that you've got a duffer named Sharkey on that tub o' yours. He's my meat. Trot him out and watch me maul him up."

MATCH IS MADE    
       “Look here, my friend,” I said, stepping up, "my name is Sharkey, but this no time to have trouble. If you are a fighter we can meet and have it out in the ring."

       "That's my idea exactly," roared Mulvihill, "but I don't think you're game to meet me in the ring or any other place. Sailors are a lot of bluffs. Never saw one of 'em yet who could fight. They're all full of soup and potatoes."

       Mulvihill never knew what a narrow escape he had from being seriously injured that day. Those fellows in Sheehan's wanted to "rough house" with him. But he was finally got out of the place with the understanding that I would meet him in the ring.

       The old Armory was hired again, and it took me nine rounds to convince Mulvihill that he was no champion.

GAINS PRESTIGE
       Mulvihill was a scrapper of the barroom order, covering his face with one arm and lashing out with the other when he got in close. I had to beat him down with main force, slamming him on the back and trading punches with him when I could.

       When Mulvihill left the ring he had changed his mind about sailors all being full of soup and potatoes.

       Several of Mulvihill's friends who bet on him did not have the money to pay their fares back to San Francisco. They had to walk around the bay to get home.

       That fight was the last I had in Vallejo. I had acquired considerable local prestige and my shipmates were urging me to go after some of the better known fighters.