All stone and ice and concentration when he entered the ring, Ketchel was as cross as a sick old woman in the few hours leading up to fight time. Nevertheless, I always enjoyed his company. He was a great fighter—the greatest middleweight I have ever seen in ring action—and his untimely death by gunfire at the hands of Walter Dipley at the age of twenty-four was a heavy loss to boxing. [Illustration: 10] JACK JOHNSON The year was 1910. Jack Johnson had defeated James J. Jeffries to retain the world heavyweight championship. The cry for a “white hope” to dethrone the Negro king was now greater than ever. Jack Johnson remained for a short time in Reno, where I saw him stop Jeffries, and then went on to Chicago, where he was the center of a wild reception. I was told to stay with Johnson until his arrival in New York, where the police feared a race riot would make things very uncomfortable for all concerned. I shall never forget the sight that greeted us in New York: Thousands of Negroes crowded the streets, parading, shouting, shooting off fireworks, and carrying on in hilarious fashion. They were celebrating a Roman holiday. It seemed to the police that the Negroes were hell bent for trouble and they took every precaution to prevent it. There were some fist fights, but the anticipated disorder on a large scale was missing in contrast to the street riots which Johnson’s triumph over Jeffries caused in other cities. When I arrived in Buffalo on the Jack Johnson Special, a throng surrounded the car where Johnson was standing on the platform. A backfire from an automobile brought speedy action by the police who had mistaken the backfire for gunfire. We all made a dive into the club car, and when we learned what had actually taken place, Johnson, with his broad grin, returned to the platform to greet the cheering gathering. It was so unlike what we had expected! From Birmingham down to the Grand Central Station, it was one grand ovation after another at each station stop. When we reached New York, the crowd was so dense the police had difficulty clearing a path for the homecoming party to get to the cars. The reception that Johnson received at the station was nothing compared to the gigantic ovation that awaited him in Herald Square when he reached Baron Wilkes’ Hotel, a rendezvous for the colored sports folk of the big city. Thousands blocked the square. It was with the greatest effort that the conquering hero of the Negro race was finally able to make an entrance into his hotel headquarters where his wife, Ruth Cameron, was living. Many white folk crowded the banquet room and no one was molested. It was a good natured gathering for the most part. Johnson and I were good friends. He had promised me an exclusive interview, and he asked me to accompany him to his suite. There, when asked to comment on the stories that his victory had stimulated race riots throughout the country, he remarked: