The raised ring was in amidships before the after superstructure. The officers occupied tiers of chairs round three sides of the platform. The Admirals and their staffs in front, and the Post-captains of the ships that had entered competitors, just behind. On the forward side, extending the whole breadth of the ship, was the dense array of the ship's company. The majority were in tiers on planks, but a number had found their way to other points of vantage, and were clustered about the funnel casings and turrets and even astride the great guns themselves. A murmur of men's voices, punctuated by the splutter of matches as hundreds of pipes were lit and relit, went up on all sides. The judges were taking their seats at the little tables on either side of the ring, and the referee, an athletic-looking Commander, was leaning over from his chair talking to the Chaplain who was acting as time-keeper.
The Physical Training Officer of the Flagship stepped into the empty ring and raised his hand for silence. The hum of voices died away instantly, and in the stillness the thin, querulous crying of the gulls somewhere astern alone was audible.
"Lieutenant Adams, Welter-weight Champion of the Navy, and Seaman Hands, ex-Middle-weight Champion of England, have kindly consented to give an exhibition of sparring," he proclaimed, and withdrew.
During the applause that greeted the announcement a youthful figure, clad in a white singlet and football shorts, with a sweater thrown over his shoulders, ducked under the ropes and walked rather shyly to his corner of the ring. His appearance was the signal for a vociferous outburst of applause. He sat down, holding the sweater about his shoulders with his gloved hands, and thoughtfully rubbing the sole of his left boot in the powdered resin.
The clapping suddenly redoubled, and a broad, bull-necked man of about forty vaulted lightly into the ring and took his place in the opposite corner. He was stripped to the waist; his jaws moved mechanically about a piece of chewing gum, and an expression of benign good-humour and enjoyment lit his battered, kindly countenance.
It was not until the gong sounded and the two men rose from their chairs that the contrast between the toughened ex-professional and the lithe, graceful amateur brought forth a little murmur of delight from the vast audience.
In the sordid surroundings of the prize ring there might have been a suggestion of brutality about the older man. The great hairy chest, the knotted arms covered with barbaric tattooing, the low-crowned skull and projecting lower jaw gave him an aspect of almost savage, remorseless strength softened only by the gentleness of his eyes. He moved as lightly as a cat, and from shoulder to thigh the muscles stirred obedient to every motion.
The Lieutenant was perhaps fifteen years the junior. The playing fields or racquet-courts of any university would recognise his type as nothing out of the common. Deep-chested, lean-flanked, perfectly proportioned, and perhaps a shade "fine-drawn"—England and America carelessly produce and maintain the standard of this perfection of physical beauty as no other white race can.
The two men met in the centre of the ring, and as they shook hands the old pugilist grinned almost affectionately. The lack of several front teeth incidental to his late profession was momentarily apparent, and an enthralled Ordinary Seaman, perched insecurely on the lower funnel casing, drew his breath in relief.
"'E won't 'urt 'im," he said in a whisper, as if to reassure himself.