“I put those in for the convenience of the newspapermen who want to phone after the fight.” No one thought of investigating. We accepted Tex’s explanation and the next day’s reports from the camp mentioned the item. But on the day of the fight we noticed that the booths were covered with curtains and upon checking further, found that Mrs. Rickard, Mrs. Jeffries, and other women, were seated in those “telephone booths,” all hidden from public view. That was the first effort Tex made to have women enjoy boxing without being molested. * * * * * Following the Reno battle, Rickard hit the trail southward. He went to Argentina, where he bought a ranch and raised cattle for export. Just about the time he decided to get back to the States, a young Colorado hobo-miner was making his way East after a few successful fights with unknowns like himself. His name was William Harrison Dempsey, and he was destined to become the perfect partner of the vast Rickard promotion enterprise. Hanging on the wall in my office today is a wrinkled right-hand boxing glove. On the back of it, stretching almost from the curled finger-tip to the wrist, is a dry, dark-brown stain. This glove is a souvenir of the three most furious rounds of fighting I have ever seen, and the stain was made by the blood of one of the bravest men who ever stepped into a roped square. Jack Dempsey wore those gloves to win the heavyweight championship of the world. He was, in my opinion, the most colorful fighter of the twentieth century. The blood stains came from Jess Willard on that unforgettable afternoon at Toledo, Ohio, July 4, 1919, under a blazing sun that caused the thermometer to register 101 in the shade. Fate must have smiled when Tex first clapped eyes on this young genius of the ring, with his dark, indrawn brows and curly black hair, for it was Rickard’s opinion that the gigantic Willard couldn’t be licked. Even when Dempsey knocked out the huge Fred Fulton in eighteen seconds, Tex couldn’t see that destiny had presented him with a fighter who, perhaps alone of all pugilists, could carry his daring and ambitious schemes to success. The Dempsey-Willard bout decided matters, although it was not a startling affair financially. I was in Toledo some days before the fight sizing up the chances of the men. Willard I knew to be a good, though not a brilliant champion. He was so contemptuous of his smaller opponent that he hadn’t troubled to get himself into proper condition. I went around to see him one morning at ten o’clock and found that he was still in bed. I mentioned the matter to Tex. “I know, Nat,” he replied. “He’s taking Dempsey too lightly. Thinks he’s got a cinch. I wish someone could make him see this fight more seriously.”