“So that’s what I’m going up against?” he murmured low.
Six feet of man, broad shoulders, a shock of red hair that stood straight up, a square jaw and glittering eyes, this was Red McGee.
And was he popular? The hoarse shouts of approval that made the rough rafters ring as he stepped out on the floor left no room for doubt.
Red was to box three rounds with a man named Tomingo, a dark-faced foreigner who piloted a gill-net boat. Johnny was thankful for this brief reprieve before he too should step into the ring.
That Red McGee was no mean boxer he learned at once. He had a head on his shoulders and a remarkable eye.
“He seems to anticipate every move this Tomingo makes,” Johnny groaned in a whisper.
“They have boxed together before,” was Blackie’s answer. “Perhaps many times. When you play a game with a man many times, just any game, you come to know his tricks. But you, Johnny, he doesn’t know you. It’s an advantage.
“But, Johnny,” he cautioned after a moment’s silence, “don’t let him get to you. Look at those arms! If he hits you just once, a good square one, you’re sunk.
“And, boy,” his voice dropped, “this is a big spot. It’s important, mighty important. These fellows must respect us, have faith in the Stormy Petrel and her crew. If they don’t, they’ll go storming out there six hundred strong, looking for trouble. And if they find it! Oh, man! They might start a war.”
“There!” Johnny breathed. “There’s the bell. That match is over. And Red McGee is just nicely warmed up.”