Imagine over sixteen thousand human beings filing slowly from a cemetery where departed heroes have been put away from earthly cares! Imagine their conversation in hushed whispers, their bowed heads, smothered ejaculations! Hear the mumbled accusations emanating from a few of the unpleasant! So you will have a faint idea of the feelings of that motley, silent crowd which wended its way home after the Johnson-Jeffries contest at Reno, July 4, 1910.

When that human statue sank into obscurity through the center ropes, half of the huge bulk hanging listlessly on the outside, with the little Spartan, Abe Attell, vainly endeavoring to push the great wreck back into the arena (while the magnificent grinning piece of ebony was standing with clenched fists and wicked expression ready to administer the quietus that was within his power), a hush fell upon the assemblage.

All turned their heads as the inanimate fighter showed signs of returning consciousness. The ponderous Jeff with the aid of Attell and others slowly unwound himself from the meshes of rope and regained his equilibrium, only to be crushed again to the boards by the powerful fists of his adversary. Then a smothered cry from the spectators and all was over. The mangled gladiator was carried bleeding and bruised to his corner and another champion was heralded throughout the world.

I have never witnessed such a spectacle. What a hollow victory! What a disgraceful defeat! It was a defeat without pity, success without compliment! And yet it was a battle fought by two of the most magnificent specimens of humanity ever chiseled by nature's journeymen!

At the beginning they were magnificent—from the throat down! Their faces were not in harmony with their bodies. As each of these warriors stood in his corner ready for the fray I looked from one to the other and as my eye travelled from their feet to their heads I was dumbfounded at what their faces depicted.

Both had the expression of the craven! On each was the apprehension of impending danger accurately defined; alarm, dread, terror were imprinted indelibly upon each countenance, the negro trying to force saliva into a mouth as dry as an oven, endeavoring to smile while his jaws worked like the jaws of a hyena. Poor Jeff stood up, but only for a second. His ponderous legs refused to bear his weight of worry! They trembled so perceptibly that he was forced to seek his chair when his knees began to knock against each other in angry protests at what they were expected to perform.

It was past belief—strong men, equally capable of performing any feat of physical prowess, whose brains refused to obey their wills! Each knew his terrible responsibility, but the gray matter refused to supply the necessary oil to put the engines to work. Millions were waiting to hear the result.

I don't accuse either of abject cowardice. I believe that at that moment Jeffries would have faced a cannon and awaited the result as befits a soldier in battle. His trouble was that he was not the man of brain who could assume a responsibility.

Grant sacrificed thousands of men to attain a result. He would willingly have given his life if necessary a thousand times, but he was man enough to live for a cause, not die for it! Jeff, having a little more brain than his aboriginal antagonist, suffered more, hence his greater terror.

As the bell rang for the commencement of hostilities Jeffries, instead of rushing at his dusky opponent, assumed a defensive attitude, disobeying all instructions, all thought-out intentions. He had planned his battle as every general does, the night before, but in the ring he threw away all his plans and obeyed the dictation of a puny, tired, unresponsive brain. With every step he retreated the negro's courage gained and as the round progressed his assurance became more manifest. Confidence took the place of fear and as the bell rang to signify the end of the round victory shone in the negro's face and the knell of defeat had sounded for Jeff.

The king was dying, but not the death of a courageous man. He was dying, retreating, not advancing. The body was willing, but the brain was dead. Responsibility was the referee that counted out Jeff! That is the truth of this, the greatest and yet the weakest battle ever fought.

Let us draw a curtain over the Reno desert and be charitable to Jeff. God gave him brawn, but denied him the necessary brain to equalize it all.

Perhaps it's all for the best. There's a cloud on the horizon of Fistiana. Perhaps a bright young American may burst through, the sun may shine once more and a white American, impervious to mental collapse, may wear the laurel of champion.

Let us hope so.

I had taken a party of friends from New York to see the fight. We had travelled in a private car—and the return trip had been paid for in advance! As we left the arena and headed back to town not one of us, hardened sports as we all were, not one of us remembered that we had a fleet of automobiles waiting to take us to our car. We walked right by them! It was the longest, hottest, dustiest tramp I ever took.

Arrived in the car someone broke the silence with the suggestion that the first man who referred to the fight be thrown off the car. Our silence gave assent. As there was nothing else in the world to talk about—we kept still, how long I don't know, but it seemed hours.

Finally big George Considine realized his throat was parched and he pushed a button. Up to that moment the summons had never failed to produce our grinning porter from the little buffet instantly. This time there was no response. George pressed the button a second time. We all heard the bell distinctly. All of us had his gaze fixed on the buffet door. Again George rang the bell and this time he kept his thumb jammed against the button. Then he got to his feet and declared himself.

"If that nigger is in that buffet he'll never come out now—alive!" And with that he started.

We all sat tight and waited. In less than a minute George reappeared—laughing hysterically. For an instant I thought the terrible shock of the afternoon had affected his mind.

"Is he dead?" someone gasped.

"Nearly so," replied George, choking with glee. "You know I went in there firmly determined to kill him. But the minute he saw me he covered his face with both hands and said, 'Fo' Gawd's sake, Mr. Gawge, don' hit me. I'm good for nothin'. I caint lift a glass, let alone serve a drink. I'm so weak.' I asked him why. 'Well, you see, Mr. Gawge, I've been savin' and savin' fo' a year evah dollah I could scrap together; borrowed from my wife and soaked my watch at Chicawgo. I had six hunderd dollahs on my pusson when I got heah and it was all goin' on Mr. Johnson. But on this trip, listenin' to all you gemmen talk I got so I couldn't see Mr. Johnson nohow and switched and my money all went on Mr. Jeff'ies. When Mr. Jeff'ies received that awful wallop in the second round I said goodbye, wife and chillen, and when he was knocked out—I went with him! And I haven't come to yet!'"

We finally managed to induce him to come out of the buffet and told him we'd try to make him a little less miserable by chipping in on a purse for him. Somebody passed the hat. I threw in all I had in cash and I imagine every one else did. The total count was $51.25!

I thought we ought to cheer him up further and told him I would give him a good thing on the next fight. He just looked at me a minute, his black eyes nearly popping out of his head, then indicating the bills and silver in his hand said solemnly, "Me? ME, bet on a prize fight? Why guv'nor, I wouldn't bet this money that Mr. Johnson has licked Mr. Jeff'ies."

Chapter XLVI