Back in their corners, the men got ready for the bell. Dempsey’s nervousness seemed to increase with every passing second. He fidgeted and shuffled his feet, as if unable to restrain the movement of his limbs. Little did I dream that he was about to give the greatest exhibition of fighting fury ever seen in an American ring. The entire arena and ring were flooded with white-hot light. The heat was terrific and most of the spectators had stripped to their shirts. I was grumbling to the man next to me about the scorching I was getting, when the gong sounded for the opening round. I didn’t notice the heat after that. Dempsey leaped from his corner like a tiger, facing the champion almost in his own corner. He feinted with his right and shot a left to Willard’s ribs. It connected with the noise of a wooden hammer, bringing a roar from the crowd. “By heavens, he can hit!” roared Bill McGeehan, famous New York scribe sitting near me. Seven times in that first round Willard was dropped to the canvas by the smashing blows of his challenger. Dempsey presented a figure of murderous fighting energy as he stood over his fallen opponent after every knock-down. He was quivering and snorting like a wild animal and his scowl was terrifying. Never had I seen human nature stripped so bare of civilized pretense. When Jess went down for the seventh time, Ollie Pecord started counting. The gong sounded ending the round when he reached seven, but Pecord had not heard it through the din and he lifted the arm of Dempsey in token of victory by a knockout in the first session. Pandemonium reigned. Dempsey leaped from the ring and was on his way to the dressing room when the error was noted, and he was called back. Willard seemed unaware of what was going on. He had been dragged to his corner where he sat with broken jaw, his eyes glassy and bloodshot, and the claret flowing from nose and mouth. Yet, to the astonishment of all, the Kansas Giant got to his feet to face additional punishment in the second round. I have never seen a fighter so badly battered. There were groans from the gathering. This was not a boxing match, but a slaughter, and when the challenger began to pick out Willard’s terribly damaged eyes for further attack, boos greeted him. Once Willard fought back, but it was a futile attempt to stem the tide. The spectacle of Willard, his face battered beyond recognition, standing defenseless before this human tiger, didn’t accord with ideas of true sport. Yet the fight went on! The final act of this savage, brutal affair, was yet to be fought. I watched Willard stagger to his corner. He was all in. He lacked the strength to stand up and had to be assisted to the stool. The spectators pleaded for the closure but Ollie Pecord, a referee of the old school, would have none of that. He would not stop a fight so long as the champion was able to come to scratch.