"We will, in any case," observed Kennedy. "All our boys will be there to give your Maori chum a buck up. I'll pass the word to some of the Tommy soldiers. They're good sports, and will shout with the rest of us."
With the laudable intention of keeping the men's minds fully occupied during the hours of leisure, the officers had arranged for the boxing-tournament at an early stage of the voyage. The contests were to take place on the promenade deck, a space having been roped off and seats provided for the officers. Every other available part of the deck which would command a view of the "ring" was packed. Men were clustered like flies in the boats on the boat deck, others swarmed up the shrouds, to the choleric but ineffectual protests of the ship's officers.
Several pairs of sparring-men having displayed their prowess and received indiscriminate praise and rebuffs from their respective supporters, the event of the evening was announced.
Gunner Jan van Eindhovengen was open to engage upon a ten-round contest with any non-commissioned officer or man amongst the troops on board.
Amidst the vociferous shouts of "Oom Jan" from his compatriots, the Afrikander stepped into the ring. Stripped to the waist, his huge bulk, bull neck, and massive limbs showed to their fullest advantage. Across his chest and back the muscles stood out like knots on a gnarled oak. His arms were as thick as the thigh of an ordinary man, while his seconds had considerable difficulty in placing the gloves on his enormous hands. With a supercilious and self-confident smile he folded his arms across his chest and surveyed the dense crowd of spectators.
Having summed up the formidable champion, Malcolm directed his attention towards the group of men from which van Eindhovengen had just emerged. From the other side of the ring the lad scanned the faces of the Afrikander's comrades, but Without the desired result. In vain he looked for the man who, he felt confident, was the selfsame individual they had met on the Muizenberg train.
"A freak of the imagination, I suppose," decided the lad, whereupon he devoted his attention to the events in the ring.
A counter-blast of cheering announced the appearance of a challenger--Sergeant Smithers, of the 2nd Battalion West Othershires. The Sergeant was the best boxer of his regiment, but he had forgotten that a protracted sojourn in the reputed site of the Garden of Eden--where a boundless expanse of glaring sand, a total absence of verdure, millions of tormenting flies, and a meagre menu consisting chiefly of bully beef and tepid water, are the outstanding characteristics--is apt to undermine one's physical condition.
Severely punished, Sergeant Smithers held out for five rounds, while the gigantic Jan, disdaining the services of his seconds, grimly eyed the circle of spectators in the hope of meeting another antagonist.
Softly, then gradually increasing in volume until it rose to a tremendous roar, the Maori war-song greeted the appearance of Te Paheka. In wonderment, for, with few exceptions, none of the other troops had heard the chant-like chorus before, the white men relapsed into silence. For the moment all attention was shifted from van Eindhovengen to the new challenger.