He threw his garment to the tall slight lad, and rolled up his sleeves, to stand forth no mean antagonist for the bully, though Terry was a couple of inches taller, as many years older, and better set.
“Be ready to pick him up, Molly Roy,” said Terry, sneeringly. “Get a sponge and a basin of water ready, Baby Jenks, and—”
He staggered back. For as he spoke he had begun sparring at one who was smarting with rage, and the thought that the cowardly fellow who had injured him so in the night was before him ready for him to take his revenge. Syd thought of nothing else, and the moment he was facing his adversary, clashed in at him, delivering so fierce a blow that Terry nearly went down.
Then came and went blow after blow. There was a close, a fierce struggle here and there, and both went down just as a pair of broad shoulders were seen at the door beside those of Bolton, who was keeping watch over the fight instead of the companion-ladder, and the broad shoulders and the rugged countenance were those of the new boatswain.
“Arn’t lost much time,” he growled.
“No. Don’t stop ’em,” whispered Bolton. “Let them have it out.”
“Oh, I arn’t agoin’ to stop ’em,” growled back Barney. “He’s got to be a fighting man, so he’d better larn to fight.”
“Can he fight?” whispered the middy.
“Seems like it, sir: that was right in the nose.”
An excited murmur ran through the spectators, as after a sharp little episode, during which Syd had been a good deal knocked about, Terry went back against the bulkhead and stood with his hand to his face.