Fo'castle Waltz

The Hog-Islander tried to look broader, but I guess he got discouraged. Joe straightened up, stretched, and took a deep breath. He was something to see, that guy, when he swelled out like that, and he knew it.

The tall Texan moved down toward his gang.

"Well—hopes Ah'll be seein' ya later."

We were all proud of Joe and happy he was from our ship. Chips, the big Russian, was as big as Joe and he sat at one of the tables, but somehow, with that straw hat set straight on his head, he didn't look tough. I'd been a little apprehensive about those Hog-Islanders, but now I felt just let them start something—we'd ruin them.

We finished those pink cockroach shrimps and quite a bit of wine. After a while the crowd began to thin out and we too thought we might as well go over to the Mission and take in the fights. Joe said he might put on the gloves if that big guy still wanted to, and we all went along hoping he did.

23. The Polack from Baltimore

THE MISSION HOUSE MUST HAVE BEEN BUILT RECENTLY, it still had the smell of damp mortar and the varnished wood door stuck as we came in. It looked like any suburban parish house—white stucco walls and brown fake wood beams. Those jerry-built houses seemed to act as a hyphen between the austerity, the spiritual unreality, of the church and the social and physical needs of the parish. They usually are chilly and bloodless places—just a come-on to salvation, and they fool none of the sinners they are set up to trap with their bingo games, hot chicken suppers, or emasculated boxing bouts.

We found the whole crew of the S.S. Hermanita sitting on the benches that circled a professional-looking prize ring. Some guys who must have been from the Belgian ship sat off to one side. The Limeys were there, and opposite us on the other side of the ring sat the Hog-Islanders yapping and howling like a lot of coyotes.

There were a couple of Belgian boys in the ring making vague dabs at each other. They laughed a lot as they kept punching, swinging and missing. The bald-headed English referee was busy bobbing around, ducking up and down and back and forth—he was much more active than the fighters. The howls and snorts from the Hog-Islanders bothered him, and he'd look over at them now and then and frown his disapproval.

That bout was over, I don't think there was any decision. It looked as if we hadn't missed much if they were all like that.

The ring was cleared and the referee walked out to the center and held his arm aloft until there was absolute silence. Then he said:

"Gentlemen, the next bout will be a four-round go. The contestants at 8 stone 6—Mr. Reginald Robertsbridge, and at 8 stone 4—Mr. Sidney Hamildowne-Barnes of the S.S. Dulcimer. I've been ausked to announce—this is not a prizefight, mind you. This is a boxing exhibition. I'd like to make that clear now—a gentlemanly boxing exhibition."

From over in the Hog-Island section there blossomed as ripe a raspberry as ever I heard. That drew a laugh.

Two gawky, pimple-faced English boys climbed into the ring —they had stripped to their undershirts. They both wore high-waisted black trousers held up by broad suspenders, and on their feet, those thick-soled heavy shoes (boots they call them) that somehow get the color of a polished black kitchen stove. The big padded cushion of a glove they wore emphasized their pale, bony arms.

They stood in the center of the ring nervously pushing one glove against the other, occasionally shoving their long hair back up on their pompadours.

The referee went through the regular spiel. They would perform under the Marquis of Queensbury rules for boxing exhibitions. He trusted they'd both abide by those rules, keep their punches up, never use the heel or back of the glove, step away when their adversary had received a knockdown blow, break clean in the clinches, etc., etc. We all recognized that was the regular preamble, and the audience was respectfully silent.

His conclusion, "Now then, gentlemen, please return to your comers and come out boxing. May the best man win," opened up the dam, and the crews from all the ships shouted advice and encouragement.

The boys turned and walked with calm dignity to their comers. There they wheeled and returned with the same dignified walk, but a little nervous now, to the center of the ring. They stopped a good two yards away from each other, planted their heavy feet on the canvas, struck a fighting stance—left arm thrust forward, right back, held cocked for a murderous blow if your adversary comes within range—and just stood there!

It was undoubtedly position No. 1 from the shilling sixpence book on the Manly Art of Self-Defense (profusely illustrated with charts and diagrams).