"Blast yer hide, if this ain't the real show," he murmured. Tod heard the rising voices behind him. The men were eagerly making ready for the fight.
He crossed the dark deck to the washroom with its smell of lye and damp wood. The cool salt water seemed to clear his mind. He rubbed himself briskly and slipped into the short tight pair of gray trunks. He put on the canvas shoes, and rose, finding himself fit and eager. With his coat on and his clothes in his hand, he went down the starboard alleyway. A light burned in the cook's cabin.
Stepping within, he dropped his garments on the chair and looked at the Tattooed Man, who lay in his bunk, reading. Tod's eyes met the surprised incredulous stare of the huge man.
"Sufferin' whale oil, what you doin'?" The cook rose to a sitting position and ran a hand through his short hair. His huge body seemed to quiver in amazement; but his eyes flashed darkly. "Joe Macaroni, you goin' to fight?"
Tod nodded.
Jarvis rose and motioned him to the berth. "Lie down—rest. When is it coming off?"
"In twenty minutes. Toppy is fixing up the fo'c's'le Both gangs will be there."
"I don't like it, Joe Macaroni," the cook went on as Tod stretched himself on the bunk. "Are you tired out?"
"I oughtn't to be. Did nothing all afternoon."
"Excited? No, you're not. Here, let me have your arm. Cool, now. Remember what I told you about the fight on the Bund at Shanghai. You must play the same game. Red can last all evening, but you can't stand the strain. Get him before you tire."
Jarvis was talking serenely now. "I've seen this coming, kid; and I hoped it wouldn't. This flotsam on the Araby isn't for the likes o' you, Joe Macaroni. Why did you ever sign on?"
"I had to."
Jarvis sighed. "Well, you're here now; and you've got to fight. The men have driven you both to it. I've seen 'em talking, whispering when the officers wasn't near. Down in the engine room, too, it's been the same."
Tod closed his eyes. Yes, he knew that this was more than a personal quarrel between him and Red Mitchell. The smouldering jealousy between the engine room and the deck, between men who slaved in the inferno below and those who worked in the cool air above, had kindled into hate at the death of the stoker. Alive, he had been growled at by his messmates; dead he had become a friend to be avenged.
Hatred flamed forth in all its fury. Red would avenge the wrongs of the engine room; the kid would uphold the rights of the deck.
"Five rounds, you say," Jarvis went on. "That's too long for you, Joe Macaroni. Red's muscles are made of iron. Behind each blow will be months of trimming in the bunkers, throwing coal down the chutes to the stokers at the furnace. Older he is, too; but he has no science. You think you know how to box. Then use it, every bit. Take it easy at first. He is cowardly. Find his weak point, then press— press and give no quarter. He means to fight to a finish. This is no child's play."
"I know. I've found none on this ship."
"Aye, growing up you are, Joe Macaroni. Almost a man. Rest, now—close your eyes. My heart is in this fight."
Footfalls sounded in the alleyway. "Ready, kid?" whispered Toppy. "The gang's waiting. Fight 'im —fight 'im. We spect you t' hold up the honour o' our bloomin' fo'c's'le."
Quietly the three went out. At the main deck they hesitated. The last members of the firemen's forecastle were streaming down the companionway. Suddenly, there arose a shout of mingled voices.
"Red's come," whispered Toppy. "Hush! Wait!"
On the boat deck above them had sounded the steps of an officer walking forward. Evidently the noise had caught his attention. He waited for a moment at the rail, then went back to his room beneath the chart house.
"That's Burton," Jarvis commenced. "Listen, there's the fourth engineer playing his darned ukulele."
Tod heard the sounds of soft-stringed notes drift down and a voice singing in a high falsetto:
"All de world am sad and lonely, Ebery where I roam . . ."
That song wasn't true, the boy thought swiftly as they crossed the deck. The world was neither sad nor lonely; it was exciting and filled with people. At the seamen's forecastle he stopped, while Toppy led the way below.
"Cool—cool, Joe Macaroni. Make him angry, tire him, then light in."
Grudgingly, the stokers sitting on the companion steps moved aside to let the three descend. Between Toppy and Jarvis, Tod let his glance sweep over the place. The light above the entrance had been turned out and a shade flung around the single globe between the bunks, so that a blue cone of light cut down through the smoky atmosphere. Red Mitchell's gang lined the stairs and the after bulkhead; Tod's crowd rose tier on tier in the bunks forward. The forecastle was hot and stale; it was damp with sweating bodies. The ventilators, trimmed to the wind above, and the open ports on the right side let in only a feeble flow of air. Voices rose, murmurous with eager lust for blood. Pipe and cigarette smoke sent a continual haze up to the deckhead where it hung like a cloud, black and stagnant, threatening as a coming storm.
As Tod and Jarvis crossed beneath the glow of the light, a roar of welcome came from the throats of the seamen.
"Yer blarsted fools!" shouted Toppy in rage. "D'ye want ter 'ave the horficers down on us? Pipe down!"
In the apex of the forecastle, where its narrowness allowed only one tier of bunks, Tod took a chair arranged for him. Over it were flung several towels; a water bucket stood on the floor.
From the cleared space in the centre, Toppy gave his orders in a shrill high voice. "Close the door, Judson. Blimey, I know it's bloomin' 'ot; but youse guys make too much noise. Johnson, keep yer glims peeled on the arfter deck. And don't yer fergit to sing out if any bloomin' horficer pipes up. I'm run-nin' this fight 'cause I'm the only one as knows the old Mark o' Queensberry's rules—see? And I'm the friend of them both. We'll 'ave five rounds—more if necessary."
"We won't need 'em," broke in Red Mitchell from his bench at the foot of the stairs. His partner and helpmate, Black Judson, laughed deeply.
"He's too sure, Joe Macaroni," whispered Jarvis as he rubbed the boy's arms. "Let him go the first round; then surprise him."
"No blarsted dirty work allowed," pursued Toppy from the ring. He motioned to Mitchell, who rose.
"Red Mitchell, of the Black Gang."
A low burst of applause went up from the throats of the engine-room gang. Clearly, they were certain of victory. Tod turned his gaze on his opponent who stepped into the full glare of the light. Red Mitchell smiled with the easy assurance of a champion. His pasty skin was blotched and none too clean. He drew in a long breath and expanded his chest; the muscles of his upraised arms swelled and rippled under their covering. Raising one foot quickly, he sidestepped; and his limbs, their length accentuated by the short black trunks, showed the easy play of practised muscles.
Tod watched him closely, as this play to the spectators brought a rising roar from the fireroom men. Red was five foot eight; just the boy's height; but the coal-passer was built more compactly, more solidly. He weighed perhaps one fifty, against the boy's one hundred thirty-five.
"Remember my words, Joe Macaroni. Take the first round easy. Now, go."
Toppy flung out his arm. "The kid, representing the deck."
A burst of applause went up from the seamen. Tod, stepping forward beneath the light, felt the vibration of their cries as it swelled to a mighty thunder.
"The kid. He's got guts!"
"Yah—yah. Yoost wait. He wins!"
"Pipe down!" squealed Toppy. "Any more noise like that an' th' blarsted fight is off. Blimey, ain't yer got no sense?"