And Jefferies tried again and again to batter his way through Johnson’s guard and failed. He feinted and hit, but he was too slow; and each time his glove went out with all his power behind it, the black ducked or side-stepped, getting away from danger with an agility which was astonishing in so big a man. And Jefferies knew now that he could not beat him. He was desperate, and made mad-bull rushes without avail. In the tenth round one eye was so swollen that he could not see from it, and Johnson hit him again and again. A man less strong would have been knocked out long before. Jefferies went slowly and painfully to his corner at the end of the eleventh round, his great chest convulsed with his hard breathing, his face haggard. He tried his best, but he was now hopelessly weak, and by now he had lost a good deal of blood. He was terribly punished in the thirteenth round, but he took his gruel without flinching. Three hard blows sent him staggering just before time was called. And Johnson was still fresh and strong, boxing calmly and well. The fifteenth round was the last. Jefferies staggered up from his corner and Johnson went straight up to him and knocked him down with a long straight left. Very slowly, very painfully, Jefferies rose, only getting to his feet at the tenth second. Then the black hit him again, and again he went down. This time he was utterly dazed. With all the will in the world he couldn’t rise in time; and the ten seconds were gone at the moment when he, after a dreadful struggle, had risen to his knees. It wasn’t until April of 1915, that Jack Johnson ceased to be Champion of the World. He was then knocked out at Havana by Jess Willard (who stood 6 feet 6 inches and weighed 17 stone) in twenty-six rounds. No interest whatever was taken in this contest in England for, bearing the date in mind, obvious reasons. Also, the encounter was not seriously considered on sporting grounds. Willard was subsequently beaten very easily by Dempsey in three rounds. CHAPTER VIII GEORGES CARPENTIER AND BOMBARDIER WELLS Bombardier Wells has a most peculiar record. The chart of his successes and failures is like conventionalised lightning. He began with success and then failed miserably: then up again to the top of the tree and down again to the bottom of the ladder. His career, his temperament, the state of his nerves, have been more widely and more portentously discussed than the weight of Tom Sayers, the muscle of Tom Cribb, or the reach of Peter Jackson.