HAL SHOWS HIS TEETH
Fergus McLaughlin, though down, had not yet taken the count. True,
Hal had felled him to his own deck, half-stunned; but the wiry Scot,
toughened by many seas, had never yet learned to spell “defeat.” For
him, the battle was just beginning. He managed to rise on hands and
knees. Mouthing curses, he swayed there. Hal lurched forward to finish
him with never a chance of getting up; but now old Captain Briggs had
Hal by the arm again.
“Hal, Hal!” he entreated. “For God’s sake—”
Once more Hal threw the old man off. The second’s delay rescued
McLaughlin from annihilation. Dazed, bleeding at mouth and nose, he
staggered to his feet and with good science plunged into a clinch.
This unexpected move upset Hal’s tactics of smashing violence. The
Scot’s long, wiry arms wrapped round him, hampering his fist-work. Hal
could do no more than drive in harmless blows at the other’s back. They
swayed, tripped over a hawser, almost went down. From the crew and
from the wharf ragged shouts arose, of fear, anger, purely malicious
delight, for here was battle-royal of the finest. The sound of feet,
running down the wharf, told of other contingents hastily arriving.
“By gum!” approved the helmsman, forgetting to chew. He had more than
once felt the full weight of McLaughlin’s fist. “By gum, now, but Mac’s
in f’r a good takin’-down. If that lad don’t fist him proper, I miss
my ’tarnal guess. Sick ’im, boy!”
Blaspheming, Hal tore McLaughlin loose, flung him back, lowered his
head and charged. But now the Scot had recovered a little of his wit.
On deck he spat blood and a broken snag of tooth. His eye gleamed
murderously. The excess of Hal’s rage betrayed the boy. His guard
opened. In drove a stinging lefthander. McLaughlin handed him the other
fist, packed full of dynamite. The boy reeled, gulping.
“Come on, ye college bratlin’!” challenged the fighting Scot, and
smeared the blood from his mouth. “This here ain’t your ship—not yet!”
“My ship’s any ship I happen to be on!” snarled Hal, circling for
advantage. Mac had already taught him to be cautious. Old Captain
Brigg’s imploring cries fell from him, unheeded. “If this _was_ my
ship, I’d wring your neck, so help me God! But as it is, I’ll only mash
you to a jelly!”
“Pretty bairn!” gibed McLaughlin, hunched into battle-pose, bony fists
up. “Grandad’s pretty pet! Arrrh! Ye _would_, eh?” as Hal bored in at
him.
He met the rush with cool skill. True, Hal’s right went to one eye,
closing it; but Hal felt the bite of knuckles catapulted from his neck.
Hal delayed no more. Bull-like, he charged. By sheer weight and fury
of blows he drove Mac forward of the schooner, beside the deck-house.
Amid turmoil, the battle raged. The jostling crowd, shoved and pushed,
on deck and on the wharf, to see this epic war. Bets were placed, even
money.
McLaughlin, panting, half-blind, his teeth set in a grin of rage, put
every ounce he had left into each blow. But Hal outclassed him.
A minute, two minutes they fought, straining, sweating, lashing. Then
something swift and terrible connected with Mac’s jaw-point in a jolt
that loosened his universe. Mac’s head snapped back. His arms flung up.
He dropped, pole-axed, into the scuppers.
For the first time in five-and-twenty years of fighting, clean and
dirty, Fergus McLaughlin had taken a knockout.
A mighty shout of exultation, fear and rage loosened echoes from the
old fish-sheds. Three or four of the crew came jostling into the
circle, minded to avenge their captain. Sneering, his chest heaving,
but ready with both fists, Hal faced them.
“Come on, all o’ you!” he flung, drunk with rage, his face bestial. A
slaver of bloody froth trickled from the corner of his mouth. “Come on!”
They hesitated. Gorilla-like, he advanced. Back through the crowd the
overbold ones drew. No heart remained in them to tackle this infuriated
fighting-machine.
Hal set both fists on his hips, flung up his head and panted:
“Apologize, will I? I, a passenger on this lousy tub, I’ll apologize to
a bunch of down-east rough-necks, eh? If there’s anybody else wants any
apology, I’m here!”
None caught up the gage of battle. Bursting with fury that had to vent
itself, Hal swung toward McLaughlin. The Scot had landed on a coil of
hawser in the scuppers, that had somewhat broken his fall. Hal reached
down, hauled him up and flung him backward over the rail. Thrice he
struck with a fist reddened by McLaughlin’s blood. He wrenched at the
unconscious man’s arm, snarling like an animal, his face distorted,
eyes glazed and staring. A crunching told of at least one broken bone.
Shouts of horror fell unheeded from his ears. He glared around.
“My Gawd, he’s a-killin’ on him!” quavered a voice. “We can’t stan’ by
an’ see him do murder!”
Old Briggs, nerved to sudden action, ran forward.
“Hal! For God’s sake, Hal!”
“You stand back, grandad! He’s my meat!”
Hal raised McLaughlin high above his head, with a sweep of wonderful
power. He dashed the Scot to the bare planks with a horrible, dull
crash, hauled back one foot and kicked the senseless man full in the
mangled, blood-smeared face.
A communal gasp of terror rose up then. Men shrank and quivered,
stricken with almost superstitious fear. All had seen fights aplenty;
most of them had taken a hand in brawls—but here was a new kind of
malice. And silence fell, tense, heart-searching.
Hal faced the outraged throng, and laughed with deep lungs.
“There’s your champion, what’s left of him!” cried he. “_He_ won’t
bullyrag anybody for one while, believe me. Take him—I’m through with
him!”
Of a sudden the rage seemed to die in Hal, spent in that last,
orgiastic convulsion of passion. He turned away, flung men right
and left, and leaped down the companion. Swiftly he emerged with a
suit-case. To his trembling, half-fainting grandfather he strode,
unmindful of the murmur of curses and threats against him.
“Come on, grandpop!” he said in a more normal tone. His voice did not
tremble, as will the voice of almost every man after a storm of rage.
His color was fresh and high, his eyes clear; his whole ego seemed
to have been vivified and freshened, like a sky after tempest. “Come
along, now. I’ve had enough of this rotten old hulk. I’ve given it what
it needed, a good clean-up. Come on!”
He seized Captain Briggs by the elbow—for the old man could hardly
stand, and now was leaning against the hatchway housing—and half
guided, half dragged him over the rail to the wharf.
“Shame on you, Hal Briggs!” exclaimed an old lobsterman. “This here’s a
bad day’s work you’ve done. When he was down, you booted him. We wun’t
fergit it, none of us wun’t.”
“No, and _he_ won’t forget it, either, the bragging bucko!” sneered
Hal. “Uncle Silas, you keep out of this!”
“Ef that’s what they l’arn ye down to college,” sounded another voice,
“you’d a durn sight better stay to hum. We fight some, on the North
Shore, but we fight fair.”
Hal faced around, with blazing eyes.
“Who said that?” he gritted. “Where’s the son of a pup that said it?”
No answer. Cowed, everybody held silence. No sound was heard save
the shuffling feet of the men aboard, as some of the crew lifted
McLaughlin’s limp form and carried it toward the companion, just as
Crevay had been carried on the _Silver Fleece_, half a century before.
“Come on, gramp!” exclaimed Hal. “For two cents I’d clean up the whole
white-livered bunch. Let’s go home, now, before there’s trouble.”
“I—I’m afraid I can’t walk, Hal,” quavered the old man. “This has
knocked me galley-west. My rudder’s unshipped and my canvas in rags. I
can’t navigate at all.” He was trembling as with a chill. Against his
grandson he leaned, ashen-faced, helpless. “I can’t make Snug Haven,
now.”
“That’s all right, grampy,” Hal assured him. “We’ll dig up a jitney if
you can get as far as the street. Come on, let’s move!”
With unsteady steps, clinging to Hal’s arm and followed by the dog,
old Captain Briggs made his way up Hadlock’s Wharf. Only a few minutes
had elapsed since he had strode so proudly down that wharf, but what a
vast difference had been wrought in the captain’s soul! All the glad
elation of his heart had now faded more swiftly than a tropic sunset
turns to dark. The old man seemed to have shrunken, collapsed. Fifteen
little minutes seemed to have bowed down his shoulders with at least
fifteen years.
“Oh, Hal, Hal!” he groaned, as they slowly made their way towards the
street. “Oh, my boy, how could you ha’ done that?”
“How could I? After what he said, how _couldn’t_ I?”
“What a disgrace! What a burning, terrible disgrace! You—just back
from college—”
“There, there, grandpop, it’ll be all right. Everybody’ll be glad, when
they cool off, that I handed it to that bully.”
“This will make a terrible scandal. The _Observer_ will print it, and—”
“Nonsense! You don’t think they’d waste paper on a little mix-up aboard
a coasting-schooner, do you?”
“This is more than a little mix-up, Hal. You’ve stove that man’s hull
up, serious. There’s more storm brewing.”
“What d’you mean, more storm?”
“Oh, he’ll take this to court. He’ll sue for damages.”
“He’d better not!” snapped Hal, grimly. “I’ve got more for him, where
what I handed him came from, if he tries it!”
“Hal, you’re—breaking my old heart.”
“D’you think, grandpa, I was going to stand there and swallow his
insults? Do you think I, a Briggs, was going to let that slab-sided
P.I. hand me that rough stuff? Would _you_ have stood for it?”
“I? What do you mean? How could I fight, at my age?”
“I mean, when you were young. Didn’t _you_ ever mix it, then? Didn’t
you have guts enough to put up your fists when you had to? If you
didn’t, you’re no grandfather of mine!”
“Hal,” answered the old man, still holding to his grandson as they
neared the street, “what course I sailed in my youth is nothing for
you to steer by now. Those were rough days, and these are supposed to
be civilized. That was terrible, terrible, what you did to McLaughlin.
The way you flung him across the rail, there, and then to the deck,
and—kicked him, when he was down—kicked him in the face—”
“It’s all right, I tell you!” Hal asserted, vigorously. He laughed,
with glad remembrance. “When I fight a gentleman, I fight like a
gentleman. When I fight a ruffian, I use the same tactics. That’s all
such cattle understand. My motto is to hit first, every time. That’s
the one best bet. The second is, hit hard. If you’re in a scrap, you’re
in it to win, aren’t you? Hand out everything you’ve got—give ’em the
whole bag of tricks, all at one wallop. That’s what _I_ go by, and it’s
a damn good rule. You, there! Hey, there, jitney!”
The discussion broke off, short, as Hal sighted a little car, cruising
slowly and with rattling joints over the rough-paved cobbles.