His warning struck the spectators into silence. A profound hush came over the little forecastle. Tense, breathless, they waited. Tod was dimly aware of a circle of gleaming eyes rising to the deck head. It all seemed unreal, as though he were no longer Tod Moran, but a wooden puppet decked out in fighting tights and canvas shoes, and now shoved before an audience to make his bow. Mechanically, he put forth a hand to shake with his opponent.
Red Mitchell showed his teeth in a snarl. "I don't have t' shake with this whelp. Ain't I right now?"
A low murmur of approval rose behind Red. How the Black Gang hated him! Why? What had he done to them?
"There ain't no gloves," went on Toppy mildly. "It's goin' ter be the naked fists—the raw 'uns."
A welling roar rose to the cloud of smoke above. It was like the cry of a pack at sight of the hunted, more animal than human. Tod and Red Mitchell stepped back.
153
Toppy raised his voice. "Remember—three-minute rounds." He paused. "Seconds out!"
In the silence the gentle slap of water against the hull was heard. All eyes were focussed upon those waiting figures beneath the light. Toppy's throat moved convulsively.
"Time!"
CHAPTER VII
BLACK GANG VS. DECK CREW
THE two white figures sprang into instant action. Red came at Tod with his face down, his red hair flaming, his lips drawn back over his teeth. Tod circled. Keen-eyed, cool, with his chin in and his arms close to his body, he moved his legs with the litheness of a practised boxer. No movement of his antagonist did he miss. A great driving blow flashed toward him. He avoided this, and his left shot out and just touched the other's chest.
"Attaboy! ... Ye got him, kid! Knock him cold!"
"Oh, my! Our little red rooster got hit." "Blimey! First touch! Cocka-doodle-do-o-o-o!" Tod saw the crimson leap into Red Mitchell's face. His mouth contorted in a snarl; his red-lidded eyes gleamed with malice. That was good. Red was getting peeved.
The coal-passer, slower than the boy, more solid on his feet, now attacked furiously, trying to batter down the boy's defence. Tod stepped aside, waiting. Red came at him, his head still down, his back bent almost double. The terrible onslaught of those flashing arms forced the boy to retreat. He dodged, ducked, and found himself pushed back in the narrow apex.
Laudatory cries rolled from the firemen. "Hit him, Red. ... Ye got him now."
"Wow! Wot a knockout."
A crashing fist had caught Tod straight on the ribs. As he staggered back against a bunk, he saw Red's eyes alight with joy.
"At him, Joe Macaroni! Send him back!"
Tod flung himself forward at his antagonist. They fell into a clinch. Red's hot breath was on his left shoulder; blows rained upon the small of his back.
"I'll kill you, you little pup!" Red hissed.
"Lookit the butcher!"
"At it again. He likes liver, he does!"
Toppy sprang between them. "Break, you fellers! D'you think this is a dance?"
They separated and stepped back. Tod went at him; his fists moved like the piston rods of an engine. Thud—thud! Thud—thud! Red was defending. Tod pressed him closely. The boy took a glancing blow just over his heart, then swung up his left and sent it crashing against his opponent's jaw. The dull thud echoed in the stillness.
"Time!"
Red swore softly as he wiped his chin. "Just when I got goin'. Ain't I right now?"
Black Judson chuckled grimly as he drew Red into his seat, and Tony the Wop let out a deep laugh. Immediately, the forecastle resounded with raised voices. Bets flew back and forth. Cries for their champion cut across the room.
As Tod lay back in his chair, Jarvis wiped a towel quickly over his sweating body. "Great stuff," he whispered. "You got him goin', Joe Macaroni. He's gettin' mad—fightin' mad!" He pressed a wet sponge into the boy's mouth and wiped his heaving chest. "Watch him. Play him up. Let him get wild —then slug. Watch your chance—this round!"
Tod nodded. With head thrown back, arms and legs outstretched, he lay in his chair, breathing deeply. Vaguely he was aware of the boatswain's commending voice, of Swede Jorgenson delightedly cheering him on.
"Time!"
Again the sudden silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of excited men. Again the rush of Red Mitchell's compact form. Tod waited his chance, saw an opening, and with all the force of his arms and legs let drive a blow straight for the other's tight-drawn face. It caught the man directly upon the nose. A burst of blood went streaming down his jaw, dripping to his glistening chest in great wine-red splotches.
"Lookit his bloody beak!"
"Yah—yah—yah!"
Bedlam broke loose. The noise was like the roar of animals at the first smell of blood. The boy felt suddenly sick. He and Red were fools thus to be entertaining these beasts. He hesitated. Even the furious expression of startled hate on his antagonist's face had no power to move him. And in that instant Red Mitchell drove a swinging crash upward. Behind it was all the strength of those daily five hundred shovelfuls of coal. With a resounding thud, it smacked against the boy's jaw and struck him to the deck.
Full length he lay, with his head almost at Jarvis's feet. One . . . two . . . three. . . . The bulb of the light was an immense moon swinging giddily through the sky. The rising clamour of the men was the thundering roar of a distant surf. He listened, eyes closed.
Four . . . five. . . . They were counting him out. The second round! Well, he didn't care; it was heaven here on the floor. What did he care for those bellowing men with their gloating eyes! Six. . . . He stirred; his eyes opened.
"Up, Joe Macaroni! Up!"
Seven. ... By golly, this would never do. He struggled to an elbow. Drawing an arm across his mouth he knew that his lips were cut and the blood trickling down his jaw. Eight. . . . He was on all fours now. He braced himself, swayed an instant, then rose to his feet.
"Attaboy!"
"Well, I'm hanged if he ain't got grit!"
"Guts, I call it!"
Yes, that was the word. Not to fail now. Not in the second round. He swung into position; he staggered slightly. Red came at him.
"Time!" '
Heavenly relief. Lurching, swaying, he backed to his chair. Dimly he felt the sponge at his lips, his face wiped clean, his body rubbed. Just to rest—never move. His head sank back.
What was that? Who was talking close at hand? Jarvis, of course. He opened his eyes. The cook bent over him. His mouth was a straight line in his square jaws; his eyes, set in the broad cheeks, glittered in the shadow.
"Take it easy," he counselled; "you ain't whipped yet—not by a long shot. You stopped short, Joe Macaroni. What got into you?"
"I dunno. I was thinking."
"Sufferin' tripe! This ain't no time to think. Wade in. You can lick him. He's yellow."
Jarvis turned as the bellowing roar behind him increased. Men jumped from the bunks; the Black Gang surged forward to meet them. Angry murmurs rose.
"Back! Back, you fools!" Jarvis strode to the centre of the ring. "This fight ain't over yet. No sirree! The kid ain't licked—not yet. He's got a come-back, he has. Just wait—and watch."
"Yah—wait!"
Muttering, cursing in their throats, the two factions separated. They climbed back to their seats; their eyes stared hungrily down at the open ring.
"Rested?" Jarvis was back at Tod's side. "Watch your chance. Red thinks he's already won. Fool him ! Press—press. Remember—my heart is in this fight. You'll win!"
Toppy was talking again with upraised arm. What was he saying? The voices of the men drowned his words.
Jarvis leaned closer. "It's all right, Joe Macaroni. Red don't want any more rounds. He wants to fight to a finish this time. I said yes."