Dick Baynes is a man of strong passions but few ideas. His friends
sometimes described him as a man whose heart was stronger than his
head, and he did not resent the description but rather gloried in it.
After all, ideas can be bought for base coin, but the finer feelings
are a man's own inheritance, and can neither be purchased nor
bartered away. And Baynes was intelligent enough to deal with all
the matters of his ordinary life and routine--and what can a man want
more than that?
It was in the extraordinary affairs of life that he was apt to fail;
or rather, not to fail so much as to be just a little bit slow in
adapting himself to the problems of the moment.
It is certainly a very unusual problem which he is now suddenly
called upon to solve.
The kind fairy of the story-books has not indeed taken the whole of
his difficult task put of his hands and completed it for him; perhaps
her power has weakened somewhat in the many centuries that have
elapsed since the golden age; but it cannot be denied that she has
worked to the best of her ability, or at least as much as could be
expected of her, in bringing Lieutenant-Commander Stapleton face to
face with Baynes in this most unexpected fashion.
Now it is up to Baynes to solve the remaining part of the problem for
himself.
Unfortunately, his brain is only able to light upon one solution--the
one which he has already suggested to Netta, thereby rousing her to a
horror-stricken remonstrance.
Well, he quieted her then by a promise, easily made and as easily
accepted; but is such a promise to hold good?
If he breaks it, need she ever know? Or if she does get to know,
will she mind so very much when the deed is done if she sees that her
purpose is thereby effected?
Besides, what alternative is there? Of course, Baynes does not mean
to do any lasting bodily harm. He knows his great strength, and is
confident that he can use it to a nicety, as he has so often done in
the boxing ring; he can deal a man a blow that would slay a bullock,
or on the other hand he can give a novice just such a gentle tap as
to make him believe that he is really putting up a serious fight; for
Baynes is a good sportsman.
Yes, but this is not a very sporting proposition that he is in for
now!
Well, it cannot be helped. This officer's lips have to be closed for
the next two or three days, and there is only this one way for Baynes
to do the job; otherwise--Netta will never be his.
_To do the job!_ An ugly sound in the expression! And an ugly
business it is, altogether.
Baynes dislikes it more and more, as he stands facing the other man
and deciding rapidly on what has to be done.
"Can't you speak, my man? What is the matter with you--why don't you
answer my question?" Baynes has been silent in his own unpleasant
reflections, and Stapleton may perhaps be excused for a little
impatience and irritation.
The words snapped out in his face bring a bright idea to the sailor's
mind--the one sole idea he has been able to light upon in all his
difficulties. And it is not such a bad idea either; rather a good
one, in fact.
_Can't you speak? What is the matter with you?_ Well, the matter
shall be, thinks Baynes, that I am _drunk_. That is why I cannot
answer his question, and that will help to explain why I am in a
fighting mood.
It is much to Baynes' credit that he does not even for a moment think
that this may also help later to lighten the punishment that is bound
to come to him. He is too good a fellow, too much of a sportsman, to
entertain such an idea. Having determined in his course of action he
means to see it through and does not waste a moment in thinking about
the consequences to himself.
And mind you, he regrets very much the necessity that is laid upon
him. He does not want in the least to harm this officer, he has not
the slightest personal grudge against him. But, there it is; it is a
necessity, or his passion has made it so.
He begins therefore to act his part, and lurches heavily against the
man facing him; who steps aside, so that the seaman feigns to stumble
and almost falls.
"Pull yourself together, you fool," Stapleton not unkindly bids him.
"You're all right, if you'll make up your mind to it. I want to ask
you an important question, so buck up and listen to me!"
"Don' wan' any queshuns," burbles the drunken man, "an' don' wan' any
lip from you! So look out for y'shelf!" and with the words he aims a
blow at the other's face.
Stapleton steps aside just in time to avoid the clumsy blow, and
again speaks to the man, a good deal more sharply this time.
It is to no purpose that he speaks. The man comes for him again; he
is evidently fighting drunk. And once more Stapleton has to move
pretty smartly to avoid a swinging blow.
Now, his only course is to leave the man and retire. There is
nothing to be got out of him in this state. It is a cursed nuisance,
but it is only one more annoyance in a series of unhappy occurrences.
All very well--but the man will not let him retreat so easily. The
intoxicated sailor comes after him and evidently means business.
This must be stopped. Stapleton dislikes the idea of striking one in
an inferior position, and still more the idea of striking a man in
liquor. But it has to be done, or there will be more trouble. So he
turns and faces his pursuer, and stands to await the next onset.
Nor has he long to wait; and when the lumbering seaman reaches for
him he anticipates events by cleverly getting in a short punch with
his left.
But, to his great surprise, the blow fails to get home; it is met
with all the skill of an old hand in the tactics of the ring, and a
moment later Stapleton has to make use of all his wits to guard
himself. And the thought flashes across his mind that this sailor
fights uncommonly cleverly for a drunken man!
So he begins to take the affair more seriously, and puts a little
more effort into his attempt to give the other fellow just enough to
make him see reason and let him alone.
Yet, as he goes on, he begins to realise more and more that he has
rather to act on the defensive than otherwise. The affair is
developing into a bigger thing than he thought--and how the deuce is
it going to end?
But Baynes also is not free from a big surprise. He has not reckoned
with the chance of being up against another boxing man, and he finds
himself now fighting a man whose strength and skill in ringcraft are
undoubtedly almost equal to his own!
The strange fight goes on in a weird silence, beneath the light of
the moon; sometimes, indeed, they actually have to stop while the
darkness of an overshadowing cloud makes it impossible to do more
than dimly descry the vague outlines of each other's form. The blood
of both is up, and there is no question now of the one trying to
avoid the other. Instead, they make use of these short spells of
semi-darkness while the swift clouds fly across the moon as intervals
between rounds, by mutual unspoken consent.
Now, on the moonlight reappearing, they are at it again, fighting
warily, and with all the skill they can command. There is no sound
but that of their quick and labouring breath, and now and then of a
smothered grunt as a blow gets home.
Both of them are getting badly punished. It is impossible, in such a
light, to ward off many a blow that could easily have been avoided
had it not been for this.