The Fijians appeared rather awed at the magnitude of the catastrophe, but the unquenchable Bertie, after placing his "field" for the cricket match, called out to the Mbuli to ask if it did not seem like old times to have the walls of Mbau battered down by cannon balls.
The one-inning cricket game was a Caucasian walk-over. The dazzling work of Tom and Bertie, who alternated between bowling and wicket-keeping, retired man after man with a "goose-egg," and, in spite of the scant and inexperienced "field,"—myself—had the bewildered Fijians all out for less than two score of runs. This total the versatile pair, batting in partnership, exceeded in less than a quarter of an hour.
Acknowledging that they were outclassed in cricket, the Fijians now demanded that a game of soccer football be played upon the same terms—a full team of them to the three of us—and to this proposal the game Bertie, displaying better sportsmanship than judgment, consented. Of course, after a severe buffeting which left us all rather groggy and winded for the boxing contests, the Fijians won.
On any kind of a system of scoring we had a lead of three victories at this juncture, and should, therefore, only been liable to a tie by losing all of the three boxing contests. The natives, however, contending that the winning of the Marathon was equal to a half-dozen ordinary events, insisted that they were at least on even terms with us. Again our complaisant captain, pulling on his gloves for the first bout—the lightweight—waived the point and agreed to let the three boxing contests decide the day. Five seconds later, guarding carelessly in backing away from a clinch, Bertie left a wide opening, driving into which with a well-timed short-arm jolt, his stocky opponent landed on the point of the lad's chin and stretched him limp—a clean knockout—on the turf of the village green.
Tom, who boxed almost as well as he swam, rushed his man—the shifty youth who had defeated the Honourable Bertie in the high-jump—from the beat of the war-drum which was doing service as a gong, and had him so groggy at the end of a couple of minutes that the bewildered fellow started to slug one of his own fuzzy-headed seconds. He was led off to escape further useless punishment, leaving the issue of the day up to the heavyweight bout, with me as the "White Hope."
The ponderously-limbed Goliath, whom the Fijians led out like a blue-ribbon bull at a stock show at this juncture, had been kept out of sight all day, evidently through fear of awakening a protest on our part. He was one mass of hair and rolling muscles from head to heel and needed only a knotted war-club to complete the illusion of having stepped out of the Stone Age upon the green of Mbau.
"Just such a cannibal as old Thakambau must have had for a Lord High Executioner," I told myself, and shuddered at the thought.
Of course, I knew that he could not box; but it was also equally plain that nothing less than a charge of dynamite could have any effect upon his iron-ribbed frame. I stood regarding him with dismay as Tom—they were still fanning the prostrate Bertie with a taro leaf—began to tie on my gloves.
"They've put up a game on us," he said quietly, trying to knead the padding away from over the knuckles of my left hand. "That chap's a hard nut, and they've brought him over from Rewa just because Bertie was telling them that you were the champion of America. It's a dirty trick, but it'll only start a row if we try to call the turn. Go ahead as if nothing was wrong, but be sure and not try any in-fighting. Then we'll at least get a draw out of it. I'll tell you about him later. Now don't forget. Keep clear!"
It was with that sound injunction well in mind that I stepped out to where the glowering gorilla was waiting in the middle of the circle.