"Separate 'em! Don't you see the man's got only one leg?"
"Hi! The bloat wi' the wooden pin is fightin'! Blarst 'im!—look at 'im!" Sailors, beach combers, natives, and Orientals were gathering and taking voice.
We closed to render assistance as the crowd formed under the circle of light from a street lamp. The two combatants sat back in the gutter after a second exchange, both having fought sitting down.
"What are we fighting for?" cried Peter, covered with dirt and sweat.
"I dunno," admitted the stunned Peg.
"To hell with this, let's quit!"
"Naw. I wanna fight!" Peg was getting back his belligerent wind. "Wash in that jug?" he demanded, seeing the prize.
"Swipes!" cried Peter, trying to retrieve the jug.
"Lesh fight fer swipsh. Al ri! Fight fer swipsh!" he screamed with enthusiasm.
The Peg made another lunge at Peter, as our boy jumped up with surprising energy, and we grabbed our shipmate and hauled him out of the crowd of riff raff that was rapidly increasing. Some blue-jackets from the Bennington came up, scenting fun, and Axel was just in time to beat them to the jug of swipes that lay neglected in the dust. He passed this to a Kanaka standing near, a boy we recognized as one of the loading gang, who rapidly departed with his unexpected present, while we hurried off with Peter in the direction of Fort Street. What became of Peg is unknown. On Fort Street we were attracted by the melody of Salvation Army music, and to wind up the night, watched our famous Jimmy rouse things up in his new uniform, his chest expanding visibly as he ignored us and pounded his drum with added zest.