The referee had another speech to make.
"Gentle-me-n-n—"
("Yeah, Sugah. Heah we is," came from the Hog-Islanders.)
"Gentlemen—quiet please. Are there any big fellows 'ere who per'aps might volunteer to put on a bout in the 'eavyweight clawse, before we put on the main bout of the evening?"
And he turned from the Hog-Islanders to our crew with raised eyebrows and an inviting smile, since the big guys jutted up only from the American benches.
We all looked toward Joe sitting there easy and grinning. He was looking across the ring. The big Texan sprawled in his seat over there puffing away at a cigarette. He studied the ash, flicked it, and turned his head this way and that as the referee waited. It seems he couldn't see Joe across the ring. His eyes were all squinted up from the cloud of smoke he'd made.
"Well then, since we caun't get any volunteers, we'll now 'ave the main and final bout of the evening."
A door had opened in a far corner of the Mission House and out of it came our whole mess crew—Chef, Purser, and all. They were led by the little Filipino Pug dressed in a big bathrobe and a towel wrapped around his neck; on one side of him Flip, our own messboy, carrying a bucket and more towels, and on the other, our pal Philip, wearing a sweatshirt. Then the Chef and Purser.
They were a very professional-looking lot and I could see everybody was impressed, even the Hog-Islanders.
Mush leaned across and whispered, "What d'you know— lookit behind 'em. It's the Old Man."
Captain Brandt came up in the rear of that little brown gladiator and his handlers. Mush had never before seen the Captain in his pencil-striped going-ashore suit with the gold watch chain. The old guy wore his pince-nez with his heavy black ribbon and smiled benignly at everybody as he walked arm in arm with a gentle-looking white-haired man—the missionary. Captain Brandt looked very much the sporting gentleman.
Then it struck me. This was it.
We knew the Captain didn't drink, smoke, or gamble, and he didn't go to the houses. His secret vice might be imagining himself a sport with a private (one man) fight stable.
The little Pug did very little aboard ship outside of his eternal bag punching, rope skipping, and shadow boxing. Perhaps he had been in training all the way down from the States for just this evening at the Seamen's Mission in Ingeniero White. That's not too preposterous a conclusion. I remember that someone had said our young Third Mate was the only one of the deck officers or crew who had shipped with the Old Man before. It was said he had sailed with him since he was a deck boy and the Old Guy had helped him get his license. That Third Mate was a stocky young guy with the flattened nose and gentle eyes of a natural pug. Couldn't he have been Captain Brandt's one-man fight stable until the little Filipino came along?
The little Pug accompanied by Philip and Flip climbed up into the ring. He pranced about until they had set down the water bucket and placed a stool they carried in a corner. He sat on it and let them fuss over him a minute. He waved them aside as the referee went to the center of the ring to make another announcement.
"Gentlemen—the main bout of the evening. We are privileged this evening to 'ave the very talented and very competent semi-pro featherweight boxing champion of the Isle of Kowaho. Battling Thomas—the Filipino Tornado—who will be 'appy to meet any challengers of approximately 'is own weight in the audience. Will the challengers come to this side of the ring?"
It was a good speech and everybody listened respectfully, but there was no response. No challengers arose to meet the featherweight champion of Kowaho. He looked too good.
All of the guys in the Mission House who were outside of his weight (like me) observed the little Pug with admiration, but those who might be about in his class tried to look as if they weren't there. Their eyes moved all over the house except on the group that stood in or around the ring. Al, who had wanted a crack at the little Pug a few weeks ago, was studying the ceiling. A few of the Hog-Islanders who might have been right weren't showing any interest.
The referee looked from them back to our crew with a hopeful look. Seems the Belgians and the Englishmen weren't involved, though the majority of them were featherweights. It's evident their ships didn't feed good. They considered this an American go—just a little trouble amongst the Colonists, perhaps—and their eyes moved with the referee back and forth across the ring.
The Pug and his handlers became anxious. Old Captain Brandt began to click his teeth as he threw his head back and peered from under his glasses. The featherweight champion of Kowaho finally stood up and looked around dolefully. He looked as if he were ready to burst into tears—no challengers, no fight—and here he was all dressed up and ready to show his stuff.
The referee tapped his foot impatiently.
"Well, gentlemen, cawn't we get one challenger—?"
The Hog-Islanders over on their side were shoving each other about, each trying to get the other to get up. Over on our side somebody had said, "How's about it, Al?" But Al wasn't listening. I couldn't understand that. Maybe he was self-conscious or something. I'm sure the little Pug didn't scare him.
Scotty, who was too big for the Pug, said out of the side of his mouth, "Somebody ought to take the little mon—or thot mess crew is gonna be unbur-rable abu-r-rd thot ship."
The young Polack sat alongside of me. He had enjoyed the evening and had har-har'd and slapped his knee at the funny bout the English boys had put on. The wine he'd drunk had given him the hiccups and he belched painfully now and then —he was quite drunk. Quietly he stood up, tightened his belt, and climbed over the benches to the ringside.
He made it in four long measured steps and without a break in his stride he grabbed the ropes, swung his leg over, and was in the ring. The Challenger!
The only sound from the time he stood up was the hollow clump of his work shoes on the wooden floor. It was a great relief to everyone that he had volunteered. The gang in the ring welcomed him with broad, happy smiles. It seems the referee was a little uncertain about his weight, since the Polack was a lot taller than the Pug. He had Captain Brandt translate the Polack's weight from American pounds into English stone. The Captain beamed and might have juggled that translation—anything for a fight. But there was no question they were pretty well matched.
The Polack pulled his sweater and shirt up over his head in one quick gesture and stood there with his legs astride, rocking a little as if he were riding a rolling deck. The guy was drunk, but that bunch in the ring were so happy to have a setup for the Pug, they overlooked that. Stripped down it was obvious his weight was about right. For all his heavy tanned arms and the couple of inches he had over the Pug's height, his white, knobby torso was narrow and flat.
They tied a couple of gloves on him, and they hung from his wrists as if they didn't belong. Then they led him into the center of the ring. The referee anglicized his difficult Slavic name in his introduction. The Polack got a good hand, and after the regular spiel he, the Pug and both their handlers went to their corners. A couple of Hog-Islanders had climbed up into the Polack's comer. The Filipinos lent them a few towels and a sponge, and the main bout was on.
It was no boxing exhibition and not much of a fight. The little Pug was an aggressive pushy little fighter and the Polack was a heavy-handed pathetic lump. The little guy couldn't show his best stuff—I imagine he'd been dubbed the Tornado because of his style. He rushed the Polack and was a little miffed when he didn't back up.