Tod nodded and rose, even as the spectators hungrily took up the cry: "No more rounds. A fight to a finish! A fight to a finish!"
"Time !" Toppy whirled to the ringside.
Red Mitchell came to meet Tod with a smile playing about his lips. Tod knew from his expression that the little coal-passer thought the fight was already as good as over, that one blow would finish the kid. By golly—by golly, Red was going to get a surprise! He'd make him go down too; he'd make him feel the deck beneath his outstretched body.
"Think yuh can stand up again, do yuh?" taunted Red. "Yuh ain't got it in yuh. No—not in your family." He drove forward, head down. "Ain't I right, now?"
Tod pressed his lips tightly. He felt sharp anger surge up within him. Cool—cool, Joe Macaroni 1 A hard smile drew down the corners of his mouth.
His mind was on his work now. He avoided a blow, dodged, struck his opponent on the ribs, and dove in. Thud—thud! He battered down the weak defense. Thud—thud! The blows hit, but it was like hitting a rock. His knuckles were bruised and cut. But they were hard too. Oblivious of the mounting tumult in his ears, the shouts, the cries, the curses, he pressed, pressed, continuing his battering punishment.
A look of pained surprise came over the rat-like countenance of the coal-passer. In that stirring instant Tod knew that fear had flashed for the first time through the man.
Above the clamour he heard a voice: "Joe Macaroni —now!"
An unfathomed strength flowed through him. He shot forward. Twinkling feet, flashing legs, swinging arms with their lashing impact drove Red Mitchell backward.
"Wallop him, kid!"
"Red, you fool, fight! Fight!"
The coal-passer seemed appalled at the jolting, mauling fists. Recoiling, swerving, he was yet unable to sidestep those punishing blows. With his face a sallow gray, he parried awkwardly, and drove his right into the boy's ribs. Tod, in that unguarded second, let fly his left with all his strength, all his weight behind it. Straight toward the rat-like jaw it leaped.
"Wallop him, kid!"
The dull thud of it resounded through the forecastle. Breathless, the crowd waited.
Red Mitchell staggered, flung out his arms, and pitched backward. He dropped in a huddled heap.
"Blimey, wot a knock-out!"
One . . . two . . . three. . . . Tod stepped back. His eyes were fixed on that motionless form. Four . . . five. . . . Red stirred; he moaned slightly.
"At him, Red!"
"Don't let that lubber win!"
"Get up, you blasted fool! Shake a leg!"
The firemen swarmed from their seats and crowded about the prostrate figure. "Up, you fool!" The voices were heartless, brusque with anger.
Seven . . . eight. . . . Tod glimpsed round him the burning eyes, the leering mouths, malignant, crying for blood. Nine. . . . Red slowly rose on one elbow. His face was screwed into lines of bitter hatred. Then he collapsed again in sobbing breaths.
Ten.
Shouts swelled to a thunderous roar that detonated through the forecastle—a bellow of victory from the deck hands, a rising scream of disappointed fury from the Black Gang. At the sound, deep antagonisms were loosed at their moorings. The floor beneath the cone of light was abruptly filled with moving men.
With outstretched hands Tod stumbled through the frenzied turmoil. The sweltering forecastle, the stench of dirty bodies, the bestial howls, and the driving, thudding blows on the instant stifled him. He wanted air—air.
He felt himself lifted; he knew that Jarvis had picked him up as he would a child and was wading through the sweep and surge of that flooding tide of battle.
"Out of the way! Back—back!"
The companion steps were reached. He felt himself borne up, up—and the next moment the fresh cool air of the night caressed his moist and weary body.
CHAPTER VIII
CAPTAIN TOM JARVIS
"NEVER such a fight, Joe Macaroni. Never such a knock-out."
Tod leaned against the bulwarks; his moist hands gripped the curving edge of the steel plates. Wiping the sweat and blood from his face, he looked out across the harbour. The dark hulls of steamers loomed up in the roadstead, their sides relieved by the glow of open portholes. The sound of muffled oars drifted across the water and brought to Tod's mind the thought of other ship's officers who now perhaps were returning to their boat.
"Has the third mate heard?" he whispered huskily.
Jarvis gazed aft toward the shadowy superstructure. "Burton is deaf if he hasn't," he rejoined in his deep tone. "Listen to th' animals. How they roar!"
Tod turned and faced the forecastle bulkhead. The dark figure of Tony the Wop emerged from the open companionway and proceeded with low intermittent moans to the firemen's quarters. Behind him came the reverberating echo of the fight: shuffling feet, stifled oaths, the muffled clamour of the uproar. The injured man stumbled across the iron sill of the second forecastle and vanished down the ladder.
"Is he hurt bad, Tom?"
"Draggin' his arm. Serves him right."
"Look—there's Red."
Accompanied by the stoker, Black Judson, Red Mitchell stepped to the main deck. He flung off the arm of his companion and turned to stare back at the commotion below.
"The blasted beasts," Red shrilled. "Did ye hear 'em yell? 'At 'em, Red,' they says. 'Kill him. Fight! Fight!' Yeh—I hopes they gets some of it themselves, the beasts. Yeh, I hopes they kill each other." He stumbled toward the open door of the firemen's forecastle. Evidently, he became aware of Tod and the cook standing at the bulwarks, for he paused and eyed them intently.
"Yeh, I hopes they get killed. Ain't I right now, kid?"
Tod's hand slipped along the rail. In surprise he heard himself answer: "By golly—I hope so too."
A moment later Red had disappeared with Judson down the companionway. Jarvis made a sound like a chuckle in his throat. The boy looked up; but when he dimly saw the big man gazing aft he followed his glance.
Mr. Burton came hurrying forward.
"What's the racket, Tom?" the young third mate inquired, hesitating near them. "They've had booze?"
Jarvis nodded. "But mostly a friendly fight."
"It sounds like it." Burton crossed to the open door. His voice shouted down the stairway; then his figure blocked the entrance for a second as he descended.
In silence, the two at the bulwarks waited. If any difference below was noticeable, it was merely an increase in the hubbub. Mr. Burton soon returned.
"They've gone crazy," he ejaculated in an angry voice. "They refuse to obey." He started aft. "I'll get my automatic."
"I wouldn't if I were you, Mr. Burton," Jarvis said serenely. "Here, I'll give you a hand. Wait a minute, Joe Macaroni."
He turned with his swinging, powerful stride. His huge form blocked the dim light of the forecastle entrance. Tod heard his voice boom out as he went down the steps. "All hands on deck! Muster aft! Cut the fight, you fellows!"
Presently the pandemonium below decreased to a low murmur. At that commanding presence, the boy thought, the men had jerked themselves back into order. Commanding! That was Tom Jarvis. He knew how to handle men.
Tod watched them come up on deck. In little disgruntled groups they went their way, some down to the firemen's forecastle, others toward their quarters amidships. Even Chips and the donkeyman and the boatswain seemed to have lost their heads. Jarvis, reappearing, dispersed them in sharp ringing notes like the crack of a whip. A moment later the deck was deserted and silence once more enfolded the ship.
"Get a shower and a rub-down, Joe Macaroni, and come to my room."