Martin drew a line across the deck with a piece of charred wood. I stepped up to it and placed the toe of my left foot upon it and was ready. Bill quickly swaggered up, and I landed like lightning upon his jaw. He staggered back into the arms of Anderson. Then he spit out a mouthful of blood, and came at me with an oath and a rush.
CHAPTER VI.
I BECOME “COCK OF THE WALK”
There was nothing brutal or rough in this encounter, and, if it savours of the commonplace sailor’s brawl, I can only say that such are the customs on deep-water ships, and they must continue through all time. Life at sea is not always gentle. There is no use trying to make it so. It is nearly always a fight against the elements, and the roughness prevents the customs from becoming effete as those of the drawing-room, where an easy tongue and sarcastic wit does the hurting. This is said to be refined and not brutal, but for my part I have seen men more brutally and cruelly hurt by words than by fists. A person with a weak stomach will stand an uncommon lot of verbal brutality, but when it takes a physical form, they shrink from it and cry out that it is degrading. It is less degrading than a vile tongue.
When Bill landed upon me, there was something of a mix-up, and some short-arm work that might have proved interesting to lovers of sport. We were in pretty good training, and the thuds of our blows sounded healthily through the little forecastle. The men lounging in their pews and gazing complacently at us, their bodies and legs well out of the way, made a very appreciative audience and left the deck perfectly clear. Their remarks were not always well advised, for they clamoured loudly for Bill to put the finishing touches to me, while I jolted him repeatedly upon the side of his bullet-head.
Finally Martin and Anderson separated us for a breathing spell, and I had a chance to look about the room with the one eye left me for duty. Then I noticed the companionway blocked by the forms of two men who were somewhat remarkable in appearance. They were dressed in the height of fashion, and sat upon the topmost steps smoking and looking interested. The younger was about my own age, and good-looking, and his companion was nearer middle age, with a face describing free living.
“I have your money on that first round,” said the younger. “The Yank drew first blood,” and he pulled forth a handsome gold watch and noted the time.
“Two to one he loses yet,” said the older man, carelessly, as though it was of no consequence whatever.
That stirred something within me.
“Perhaps you would care for a turn,” I suggested, turning sharply at him. But he laughed immoderately, and the younger man joined, slapping his leg, crying:
“I’ll take you! I’ll take you!”