Suddenly a spot appeared in the distant sky. It proved to be a black duck, flying from the direction of the Florida coast, many miles away. It had lost its way and was seeking a place to rest. Bravely it flew against a half gale with huge seas pounding below. Twice, with wearily flapping wings, it sank to the waves. Each time it made a frantic effort to rise again. Spent and almost exhausted, the bird cleared the breakwater, grazed the huge sea wall, flew about 50 feet upward, then like a stone, fell almost at Jess’s feet. Gently the giant picked up the gallant, feathered fighter. Tenderly, like a mother nursing her ailing child, he held the duck to his breast. But in a few seconds the bird’s heart stopped beating. It had made its landfall, and had perished in the attempt. Jess stood there, silent and motionless, stroking the sea-drenched feathers, as though his caresses would restore the bird to life. He looked at O’Rourke and said softly, “See how black and glossy his feathers are, Tex? Too bad he had to hand in his check just as he reached the end of the trail. What a game bird!” Sunk in moody thought, Willard went on stroking the dead bird. As we watched in amazement, we saw him change. His eyes brightened, his broad back straightened. He turned to O’Rourke, slapped him on the back and grinned. And with the old brightness back, he cried, “I’ll knock Johnson cuckoo. Tonight I’ll be the world heavyweight champion. This bird has shown me something.” He wrapped up the duck in a newspaper to take it back to his hotel. “Sure you’re going to win, Jess,” agreed the trainer. “That’s what I’ve been telling you all along. What made you think otherwise?” “Sure I’m going to win,” Willard repeated. “Could there be a better omen for me than this poor bird? That duck flew a long way—right from Florida. He flopped at my feet. And this is how I now see it. The fight’s going to be a long one and a hard one for Johnson. But at the end the champion is going to drop at my feet just like this black duck did.” And so, with head held high, with springy confident steps, and carrying the bird under his arm, Jess walked back to the hotel, where he had the gallant battler buried in the garden. * * * * * The sun came down with blistering, blinding heat as Johnson and Willard stepped into the Havana Racetrack Arena that day. Jess had his instructions. O’Rourke’s plan of campaign had been drawn up weeks before. He knew that Johnson was banking on an early knockout, so he told Willard to play safe for the first eight rounds and let the Negro carry the fight to him. After that it was up to Jess to try to wear Johnson down. Tex figured that by the fifteenth round Johnson would have shot his bolt. Then Jess could open up and carry the battle to the tiring champion.