Ethan had come to admire John Paul Jones greatly since he came aboard the Ranger, and this repetition of an old slander aroused him at once.
“If you know anything about the matter at all,” said he quietly, “you know that what you say is false!”
“What’s that?” shouted the bully, leaping to his feet.
“I said it was false. It was a thing invented by his enemies; when he defied them and invited them to prove it, they feared to come forward.”
“Maybe,” spoke the master’s mate, folding his thick arms across his bulging chest, “you think that I am afraid to come forward, as you call it.”
“It seems to me,” said Ethan as he rose slowly to his feet, “that you are too ready to bluster and bully people whom you think will not fight.” His voice had been low and his movements of the most deliberate as he said this. Then suddenly his manner changed; like a flash he stripped off his woolen shirt and cried, sharply: “Get ready; I’m going to make you prove what you’ve said.”
Longsword came to his feet like a shot, and two long strides took him to Ethan’s side. The boy’s bared body gleamed like satin under the glare of the ship’s lanterns, and the strong fingers of the Irish trooper at once began kneading the long, supple muscles of the arms, chest and back and performing other services that his years of experience told him would be of benefit.
Blake stood, for a moment, dumbfounded, unable to credit his eyes; there was a clattering of draught boards as sailors who had been playing sprung up, a hissing of sharply in-drawn breath, and then a ring of human bodies formed in a twinkling; a circle of tense faces showed the interest that was excited in the breasts of all.
The master’s mate was slow of brain; but when he at last realized that a combat was inevitable, he manifested much savage satisfaction.
“I’ve got you safe now,” said he, as he stripped off his shirt in turn. “And I’ll beat you so badly that you’ll think keel-hauling is play in comparison.”