“Come on,” he sprang to his feet. “It’s time for chow.”
Passionately fond of boxing as Johnny surely was, he found himself dreading the encounter Blackie had proposed for that night. Why? He could not have told.
A strange audience awaited him in the long, low-ceilinged room where, on working days cases of salmon were stored for shipping. Seated on empty packing boxes, the men formed a hollow circle. This circle was to be the ring for the evening’s entertainment.
“They’re all here,” Blackie grinned. “A dozen nationalities: Italians, Finlanders, Swedes, down-east Yankees, an Eskimo or two and what have you.
“One thing they’ve got in common,” his voice rang true, “they’re all Alaskans at heart. Hard fighters, straight shooters, they look you square in the eye and treat you fair. But when anyone tries any dirty, underhanded work, you’ll see sparks fly.”
“Well,” Johnny smiled. “Whatever else happens, there will be no crooked work tonight. I don’t fight that way.”
“Don’t I know it?” Blackie agreed.
“Well, now, here we are,” he chuckled a moment later. “Reserved seats. Box seats, mind you. Who could ask for more?”
As Johnny sat, quite silent in his place, watching one short three-round match after another being fought in a good-natured rough-and-tumble fashion between boatmen, cannery workers, carpenters, engineer and blacksmith, he became more and more conscious of one fact—the crowd was holding back its enthusiasm.
“It’s like the preliminary bouts in Madison Square Gardens,” he said to Blackie at last. “They seem to be waiting for the one big fight. What’s coming?”