The publicity was excellent and interest in the fight was keen. The day before the bout, which took place on a Sunday afternoon, the bull ring was sold out. The stage was set for the biggest gathering that had ever seen a glove fight in Caracas and a record gate was assured. That night, I was sitting in my room listening to a Spanish music program on the radio. I had donned my pajamas because of the extreme heat. A call came in from the desk clerk informing me that two men were eager to see me. Although it was late, I told him to send them up to my room. They introduced themselves as Miguel and Arturo Mendez, brothers who had lived in Brooklyn prior to making Venezuela their home. They told me they were bookmakers. The Spanish are heavy bettors on sports events and thousands of _bolivas_, they said, had been wagered with them on the fight. They themselves were betting heavily on Chavez to win. “We know you well, Nat,” said Miguel, the taller and huskier of the pair, “and we come to see if everything is all right.” “In what respect?” I inquired. “Simply that we don’t want to lose our money. Archibald is a big favorite and we want to see that our man doesn’t lose. The Americans here have bet a lot on him.” “You want me to protect your money by giving the decision to Chavez? Is that it?” I angrily asked. “You guessed it right,” replied Miguel. “Are you with us? It will be well worth your gamble.” With that Miguel nodded to his brother, who took out a wad of bills from his coat pocket and placed it on my bed. I brushed the money to the floor and ordered the men out of the room. “Not so quick,” snapped Arturo. “You’re making a big mistake. Think it over,” he said, as he gathered up the money, and then taking a gun from his pocket, twirled it close to me as a sign of what might happen if I didn’t cooperate. “We’ll go now but we’ll call you at ten tomorrow. We want our answer then,” Miguel said as they left. I reached for the telephone, got the chairman of the boxing commission at the Caracas Country Club, and told him what had happened. “I’m not going to referee,” I informed him. “I’m coming up to see you, and I’ll return the $600 that was advanced to me for my flying fare.” There were two other members of the boxing board with him when I arrived. “You are the drawing card as much as your champion,” he said after hearing my story. “You cannot turn us down. I will see that you have full protection. A policeman will be with you all day tomorrow and you’ll have plenty of protection at the arena.” We then drove up to the promoter’s house and from there back to the Hotel Majestic, where I repeated my story to Sammy Richman and Losada. I was finally persuaded to change my mind and accept the assignment.