In the old days, indeed, had this rencontre between ‘Ugly’ and me then took place, we might have fought in an enclosed arena; for the Saint Vincent, I have been told, when she was first built, was fitted with a poop and topgallant-forecastle, and went to sea with them, but Admiral Sir Charles Napier, who was then commodore of the Channel Squadron, and hoisted his broad pennant in her, found the ship so top-heavy when under his command that he reported her to be unseaworthy on his return to Spithead with the fleet, the result of which was that she lost her poop and topgallant-forecastle; hence ‘Ugly’ and I had now to fight under the eye of the circling seagulls, always on the wing, screeching round the old training-ship in their plaintive fashion, and diving ever and anon into the tideway to pick up scraps that were chucked overboard by our comrades, more sensible than us, down below at their dinners!
The deck was quite clear, the only person visible being the captain of the afterguard, who was taking a snooze on a pile of canvas and old sails that were stowed in a heap close by the main bitts; so, acting under the chaperonage of Larrikins, who officiated as bottle-holder, ‘Ugly’ and I stood up, facing each other with our fists doubled, ready for action, in a nice little open space that seemed to have been left especially for the purpose between the heel of the bowsprit and the knight-heads.
One of the other first-class boys had stopped up to see the fun in addition to Larrikins, and he now offered himself as second to ‘Ugly,’ while Mick, of course, he being really the main cause of the quarrel, naturally came forward as mine.
“Now, gents,” cried Larrikins, seeing my antagonist and myself were duly prepared, “yer can bergin the puffomince as soon as yer likes!”
Before waiting even for this mandate, ‘Ugly’ made that mad-bull rush at me which he had contemplated in the first instance at the commencement of hostilities; but having had some considerable previous experience in the use of those weapons of attack and defence alike, with which a beneficent nature has so thoughtfully provided menfolk, from many a rough and tumble fight on Common Hard with the mudlarks and other idle scamps frequenting that place, who used to be always playing pranks with father’s wherry, trying to steal anything they could lay hold of, should we leave her for a minute alone, I had no difficulty in avoiding the onslaught of my opponent.
I kept my right hand well up on guard, across my chest; and, my left fist being extended, I caught my gentleman a pretty tidy blow under the chin that floored him as quickly as before.
“Bedad, Tom, ye had him there!” cried Mick, dancing round me in ecstasy, while ‘Ugly’s’ second was picking him up. “Jist giv’ him a onener in his bread-basket, me jewel, an’ ye’ll finish him!”
This was not so easy a matter, however, as my chum supposed; Moses Reeks being of that bulldog nature, as his looks testified, that would not give in until thoroughly licked.
“Steady there,” cautioned his second, trying his best to prevent him from continuing his foolish mode of plunging attack; but the pig-headed chap would persist in continually rushing in on my guard, and getting knocked down as regularly, time after time, without his having a chance of landing a blow at me, his fists ever whirling about aimlessly, and being easily avoided by myself. “Keep yer bloomin’ dukes out straight in front of yer, silly! ’It ’im in the heye, I tell yer! Wy, yer lettin’ ’im ’ave hit hall ’is own way!”
“Blatheration!” cried Mick, my champion, quite as energetically, in counter encouragement to me. “Go for him, Tom; go straight for him agin! Faith, me jewel, you’ll lave him soon so as how his blessed own mother, bad cess to her, wouldn’t know him, sure as me name now’s Mick Donovan!”