As Weeks, therefore, advanced with a grin, confidently as before, thinking that I should merely remain on guard, I threw my left straight out, swinging all the weight of my body in the blow; and then, stepping forwards, I gave him the benefit of my right fist, the one following up the other in quick succession, although I acted on Tim’s advice, and directed my aim towards his body.
The result of these new tactics of mine altered alike the complexion not only of the fight but that of my antagonist as well; for he went down on the deck with a heavy dull thud, almost all his remaining breath knocked out of him.
“Hurrah, the little un wins!” cheered some of the hands; while others rejoined in opposition, “The lanky one ain’t licked yet!”
But, to my especial friend the boatswain the end of the contest was now a foregone conclusion and victory assured to me.
“Bedad, me bhoy,” he whispered in my ear as he prepared me for what turned out to be the final round of the battle, “that last dhroive av yourn wor loike the kick av a horse, or a pony anyhow! One more brace av them one-twos, Misther Gray-ham, an’ he’ll be kilt an’ done wid!”
It was as Rooney said.
Matthews forced Weeks well-nigh against his will to face me once more, when my double hit again floored him incontinently, when the ship, giving a lurch to leeward at the same time, rolled him into the scuppers, as before at our first encounter.
This settled the matter, for, with all the pluck taken out of him and completely cowed, Master Sammy did not offer to rise until Matthews, catching hold of his collar, forcibly dragged him to his feet.
“Three cheers for the little un!” shouted one of the hands, as I stood triumphant on the deck in their midst, the hero of the moment, sailors following the common creed of their fellow men in worshipping success. “Hooray!”
A change came over the scene, however, the next instant.