“That’s the scheme,” said Thomas Sharkey's manager. “I’ll telephone all the sporting editors .and get ’em up here, and -when they come you be in the tub taking a milk bath. It’ll be a great ad.”The eminent prizeghter was as putty in the hands of his manager. He rwould have agreed to adopt any of the methods employed by actresses for ad vertising. So ten gallons of —not milk, but the richest of cream-r-were brought to tho hotel, pourned into the porcelain bath tub and prepared for the great event. At the appointed hour Mr. Sharkey jumped into the tub and began 'to splash about most audibly while in the adjoining room his manager interviewed the sporting editors.“Yes, that’s Sharkey taking his reg nlar daily cream bath,” he was saying “Best thing in the world for the mus cles. Like to see him?” He started toward the bathroom, from which suddenly issued a series of vociferous cries for help.The manager pushed open the doc There, on his back in the tub, lay the pride of the ring, held hand and foot in a solid casing of butter! His splashing about had churned the cream into the finest, hardest, yellowest butter ever seen. They had to dig him oai and scrape him off.At least so runs the Story told by the New York World of Sunday, Nov 19