Fo'castle Waltz

The Hog-Islanders howled. Some of our gang joined in. Then the boxers moved their feet and, with heads up, backs straight, both arms thrust forward in the offensive defensive position No. 2, warily circled each other and now and again, driven on by shouts of "mix it," "sock him, boy," they timidly shoved their gloves at each other, thus throwing their long dank hair from their pompadours down on their faces. They both stopped and shoved their hair up again with their gloves, then resumed their stance, pose and move. The referee moved with them, watching them both carefully. When the catcalls and howls from the Hog-Islanders' bench got too much for him, he stepped between the boxers (there was plenty of room), stuck his arms straight up in the air, and faced that noisy bench.

"Gentlemen, please, please. I must repeat this is not a prizefight. This is a boxing exhibition."

That round ended, and the next three were repetitions of that excellent display of gentlemanly conduct, fair play, and gallantry.

Unquestionably, both of those boys must have read the same book, and countered each other's distant roundhouse swing with such efficiency neither suffered any unforeseen physical discomfort. When one of them tripped and grazed the large nose of his opponent with the tip of his glove—to the cries of "Atta' boy—kill 'im" from the Hog-Islanders—the bout was stopped while they all, including the referee, went into a huddle to inspect the damage. He who got smacked smiled bravely, tossed his hair back in place, and they shook hands. The minuet went on.

That book they both might have shared couldn't have been written by Phil Scott, the heavyweight champion of the British Isles (in those days), for as I remember he was called Phaintin' Phil the Horizontal Champ, since he finished all his bouts on this side of the Atlantic—prone. Those two completed their exhibition upright and parallel, a mite perspired perhaps from lifting their feet and holding their arms out for so long a period, but they were flushed and happy. They left the ring arms entwined, still good friends.

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?