In a crouching attitude, and with two arms held bow-wise in front, he moved nearer the rugged, square-set figure of the Scotchman, who, as before, stood strictly on the defensive. There was a feint by Conkey—we saw Mac’s head go down again—but then came a sharp thud and a swinging, sidelong blow from Conkey, and Mac seemed to crumble into a heap, for, as he stooped to repeat his former successful grip, Conkey had shot upward his right knee with such force that Mac’s nose was a red ruin, and the blow on the ear from Conkey’s left could have done Mac very little good. So far, the advantage undoubtedly lay with the Londoner, but, after a brief spell, Mac pulled himself together, and the two clinched again. Locked together like a pair of cats, except that they neither bit, scratched, nor made a sound, they writhed all over the fo’c’sle unable to strike, but so equally matched that neither could loose himself. Had they been alone, I believe only death would have parted them; but at last, in sheer admiration for the doggedness of their pluck, we laid hold on them and tore them apart, declaring that two such champions ought to be firm friends. As soon as they got their breath, Conkey held out his hand, saying, “Scotty, me cock, ye’re as good a man as me, but Hi’m——hif ye’re a better. If yer think y’are, wy, we’ll just ply the bloomin’ ’and art, but if ye’re satisfied, Hi am.” Taking the proffered hand, Scotty replied, “Mahn, A’am no thet petickler. Ah haena a pickle o’ ambeeshun tae be thocht a better mahn than ma neebours, neither am Ah a godless fule that henkers aefther fechtin’ for fechtin’s sake; but as ye say, we’re baith’s guid’s yin anither, an’ there’s ma han’ upo’ th’ maetter. Ah dinna see ’at we’re ony forrader wi’ oor bairgin tho’.”
Then a regular clamour of voices arose, all saying the same thing, viz. that the heroes should “pull sticks”—that is, one should hold two splinters of wood concealed in his hand with the ends just protruding for the other to choose from, and whichever got the shortest piece should be the loser. It is a time-honoured fo’c’sle way of settling disputes or arranging watches.
They drew, and Scotty won. All faces fell at this, for if we were going to make a bold bid for our Christmas privileges we needed unity, and especially we wanted such a tough nut as Jock MacTavish actively enlisted on our side. The winner lifted our gloom by saying quietly, “Sae A’m with ye, aefther aal, ut seems.” Then, noting the surprise on our faces, he went on, “What’s the differ, think ye, whether Ah win at fechtin’ or drawin’. Ah said Ah’d be with ye if Ah won, sae that’s a’ richt.” And, easy in our minds, we separated, the watch below to their bunks, and the rest to their stations.
* * * * *
Morning broke in glory, such a day as we see, perhaps, two of during a year in our hard, grey climate at home. After wetting down the decks as usual, the mate gave the order to turn-to at cleaning the tryworks—a step which brought us all up “with a round turn,” as we say. Closing together we faced the amazed officer, and Mac, stepping a little in advance, said, “Div ye no ken, Maister Winsloe, ’at this is the day o’ days tae all true Chreestyin’ men. Suner than Ah’d dae ae han’s turrn on Chrissmus Day—except, af coorse, in the wye o’ neceesary seamen’s duties, sic as a trick at the wheel, furrlin’ sail, or the like—Ah’d gae ashore this meenut!”
At this we couldn’t help chuckling, for the nearest land was about three miles beneath our keel, vertically, and at least a thousand horizontally. But the mate was like Lot’s wife after she looked back. The thing was outside his mental dimension altogether. As the real significance of it filtered through, his eyes gleamed, and, with a yell like a Pawnee, he leaped for Scotty—and missed him; for Scotty was a born dodger, and had an eye like a gull’s. The officer’s spring carried him right into our midst, however; and, with a perfect hurricane of bad words, he struck out right and left as if we were the usual mixed gang of Dagoes, Dutchmen, and Kanakas he had been used to. Pluck he certainly did not lack, but his judgment had turned sour.
The skipper produced from his hip-pocket a revolver.
In a minute he was flat on deck on his face, with Conkey sitting on his head, and the rest of us were marching aft to make an end of the matter with the old man. He reached the deck from below just as we arrived; and, although the most unusual sight might well have given him pause, he showed no sign of surprise.
Advancing to meet us, he said quietly, “Well?” Again Mac was to the fore, and, facing the stately, impassive figure of the skipper, he said, “We’ve juist daundert aeft, sir, tae wuss ye a Murry Chrismuss, an’ tae thenk ye in advance-like for the bit extry vittles, an’ maybe a drap o’ somethin’ cheerin’ tae drink ye’re health in an sic an ahspeeshus occashin.”