We rode down in the elevator and went out through the lobby, and got in a taxi and rode around to the Garden. It was raining hard but there was a lot of people outside on the streets. The Garden was sold out. As we came in on our way to the dressing-room I saw how full it was. It looked like half a mile down to the ring. It was all dark. Just the lights over the ring. “It’s a good thing, with this rain, they didn’t try and pull this fight in the ball park,” John said. “They got a good crowd,” Jack says. “This is a fight that would draw a lot more than the Garden could hold.” “You can’t tell about the weather,” Jack says. John came to the door of the dressing-room and poked his head in. Jack was sitting there with his bathrobe on, he had his arms folded and was looking at the floor. John had a couple of handlers with him. They looked over his shoulder. Jack looked up. “Is he in?” he asked. “He’s just gone down,” John said. We started down. Walcott was just getting into the ring. The crowd gave him a big hand. He climbed through between the ropes and put his two fists together and smiled, and shook them at the crowd, first at one side of the ring, then at the other, and then sat down. Jack got a good hand coming down through the crowd. Jack is Irish and the Irish always get a pretty good hand. An Irishman don’t draw in New York like a Jew or an Italian but they always get a good hand. Jack climbed up and bent down to go through the ropes and Walcott came over from his corner and pushed the rope down for Jack to go through. The crowd thought that was wonderful. Walcott put his hand on Jack’s shoulder and they stood there just for a second. “So you’re going to be one of these popular champions,” Jack says to him. “Take your goddam hand off my shoulder.” “Be yourself,” Walcott says. This is all great for the crowd. How gentlemanly the boys are before the fight! How they wish each other luck! Solly Freedman came over to our corner while Jack is bandaging his hands and John is over in Walcott’s corner. Jack puts his thumb through the slit in the bandage and then wrapped his hand nice and smooth. I taped it around the wrist and twice across the knuckles. “Hey,” Freedman says. “Where do you get all that tape?” “Feel of it,” Jack says. “It’s soft, ain’t it? Don’t be a hick.” Freedman stands there all the time while Jack bandages the other hand, and one of the boys that’s going to handle him brings the gloves and I pull them on and work them around. “Say, Freedman,” Jack asks, “what nationality is this Walcott?” “I don’t know,” Solly says. “He’s some sort of a Dane.” “He’s a Bohemian,” the lad who brought the gloves said. The referee called them out to the centre of the ring and Jack walks out. Walcott comes out smiling. They met and the referee put his arm on each of their shoulders. “Hello, popularity,” Jack says to Walcott. “Be yourself.” “What do you call yourself ‘Walcott’ for?” Jack says. “Didn’t you know he was a nigger?”