“Ready for the sponge and basin, Mike Terry?” squeaked Jenks; and there was a laugh.
“I’ll remember that, Baby,” cried Terry, squaring up to his adversary again with the full intention of putting an end to an encounter beneath his dignity; and after a sharp struggle Syd’s crown struck the bulkhead loudly, and he went down sitting on a locker.
“That’s done him,” said Bolton, with a sigh, as if he were disappointed.
“Not it, my lad. Master Syd arn’t got warm yet. Your chap’s got his work cut out to lick him.”
“Then he can fight?” whispered Bolton, eagerly.
“Well, it arn’t so much his fighting; it’s a way he’s got o’ not being able to leave off when he’s wound up, and that tires ’em. Look at that.”
The fight had been renewed by Terry rushing forward to finish off his antagonist, who had seemed to be a little confused by the last round.
But Sydney eluded him, and with a wonderful display of activity avoided several awkward blows, and after wearying his enemy managed to deliver one with all his might in unpleasant proximity to Terry’s eyes.
The struggle went on with varying success, Syd on the whole naturally getting far the worst of it; but Barney stood stolidly looking on, and when Roylance felt his heart sink as he saw how badly his brave young defender was being beaten, the boatswain said coolly to Bolton in reply to a—
“Now then, what do you think of that?”