"Suttainly!" The black man seemed disposed to agree to anything so
long as he could get what he was after.
"Then here goes!" said Crothers; and he stepped in and led for the
honor of the British Navy.
Oh! It was a fight! Crothers knew what he was up against the instant
that his left fist slid along an ebony forearm and his nose collided
with what seemed like an iron club. Steamship pilot this man might
not be, but fighting man he very surely was. He hit straight and
guarded high. He was no untutored savage. He had the hardest to
acquire of all the Christian arts at his fingers' (or rather his fists')
ends, and the heavyweight champion of Gosport took a double reef in
his fighting tactics while he sparred for time in which to recover
from the shock of that first blow. The claret was streaming down
his face and he was dizzy.
"Oh, wade into him, mate!" urged Joe.
It is always easier to see what should be done than to do it. The
sand was not slipping and giving under Joe Byng's feet, nor were
his fists and wrists aching from contact with hard ebony.
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