THE FALL OF THE RED McGEE
When by popular request, emphasized by loud shouts, Red McGee was called
upon to put on the gloves, he stepped forward smiling. Johnny slid to the
very edge of his box for a good look. This was the first time he had seen
the man. He was a little startled.
“So that’s what I’m going up against?” he murmured low.
Six feet of man, broad shoulders, a shock of red hair that stood straight
up, a square jaw and glittering eyes, this was Red McGee.
And was he popular? The hoarse shouts of approval that made the rough
rafters ring as he stepped out on the floor left no room for doubt.
Red was to box three rounds with a man named Tomingo, a dark-faced
foreigner who piloted a gill-net boat. Johnny was thankful for this brief
reprieve before he too should step into the ring.
That Red McGee was no mean boxer he learned at once. He had a head on his
shoulders and a remarkable eye.
“He seems to anticipate every move this Tomingo makes,” Johnny groaned in
a whisper.
“They have boxed together before,” was Blackie’s answer. “Perhaps many
times. When you play a game with a man many times, just any game, you
come to know his tricks. But you, Johnny, he doesn’t know you. It’s an
advantage.
“But, Johnny,” he cautioned after a moment’s silence, “don’t let him get
to you. Look at those arms! If he hits you just once, a good square one,
you’re sunk.
“And, boy,” his voice dropped, “this is a big spot. It’s important,
mighty important. These fellows must respect us, have faith in the
_Stormy Petrel_ and her crew. If they don’t, they’ll go storming out
there six hundred strong, looking for trouble. And if they find it! Oh,
man! They might start a war.”
“There!” Johnny breathed. “There’s the bell. That match is over. And Red
McGee is just nicely warmed up.”
The tall, lanky boatman who acted as referee shuffled off the floor.
“Who’s next?” Red McGee invited with a broad smile.
It was evident at once that few of the men cared to take him on. Tomingo
was wearing a flaming patch where Red’s glove had raked his chin.
“Red,” one of his own men volunteered, “there’s one of them kids from the
_Stormy Petrel_ who’d like to learn a little about boxing. Would y’ mind
a teachin’ him?”
“One of those boys?” Red looked squarely at Johnny. Johnny flinched. Did
Red know? “Oh, sure!” Red’s lips spread in a broad smile. “I like boys,
always have. Sure I’ll show him.
“Look, Tom,” he turned to the referee. “Help the boy on with his gloves.
Be sure he gets ’em on the right hands. It’s awkward boxing if you
don’t.” He let out a low chuckle.
Once again Johnny flinched. What did Red know? Probably nothing. This was
just his way of poking fun at the _Stormy Petrel’s_ crew. This made
Johnny a little angry, but not too much.
“Show ’em, Johnny,” Blackie hissed in his ear. Next Johnny found himself
shaking the great paw of Red McGee. And so the fight began.
Nothing had been said about the number of rounds, nor their length.
Johnny was a little taken back when the referee settled himself on a box
in a corner.
“But then,” it came to him with a sudden shock, “I’m supposed to be a
learner. When you’re taking lessons there are no rounds. Well, I’ll be a
learner, for a while.”
He carried out his plan to the letter, almost. After giving him a few
words of instruction, Red invited him to “Sail right in. Hit me if you
can.”
The boy did not exactly “sail in.” Instead, he danced about the big man
in an awkward but tantalizing fashion. There is nothing more irritating
than a fly buzzing around one’s head. Johnny was, for the moment, Red
McGee’s fly. He was here, there and everywhere. At times he appeared to
leave himself wide open to one of Red’s sledge-hammer blows, but none of
these really connected.
All the time Johnny was thinking, “How long will he stand this? How long?
How—”
The answer came sooner than he expected. His arms were all but at his
side, he was looking Red squarely in the eyes when he saw those eyes
change. It was like the change of a traffic light from green to red. Of a
sudden, a huge gloved paw came squarely at the side of his head.
No one will ever know what that blow might have done had it arrived at
its proposed destination. It did not arrive. Johnny’s head was not there.
Instead, it was Red who, to his vast surprise, received the lightest of
taps on the tip of his chin.
The crowd saw and roared. There were men, plenty of them, who knew that,
had Johnny not pulled that punch, Red would have hit the floor.
Did Red know? For the life of him Johnny could not tell. One thing he did
know, this was no longer a boxing lesson, nor was it to be a sparring
match. It was instead to resemble an old-fashioned fight with no gong, no
referee and no time out. Red McGee was aroused. There could be no doubt
about that.
Johnny kept his opponent going about the ring in a whirl. Twice he
stopped and all but fell into Red’s waiting fists. Twice he heard the
whistle of a glove as it brushed his ear.
Once, when he was in Blackie’s corner, he heard a hoarse whisper,
“Steady, there, boy. I can’t afford to lose you.”
Once, in a mad rush, Red McGee tripped, falling to his knees. Backing
away into a corner, Johnny gave him time to regain his feet. Gladly would
the boy have remained in that corner for the count of a hundred. All too
soon he caught Red’s challenge.
“Come out an’ box.”
“Red’s in a tight place,” Blackie said in a low tone to Lawrence. “I’m
almost sorry I got him into it. He’s got a bull by the tail and can’t let
go. If he quits now he’s afraid he’ll lose the respect of his men. If he
goes on, well, anything may happen.”
In the end two things happened. Both were surprises to Johnny.
The older man was tiring. Johnny found that by using a little strategy he
could tap the man’s chin at will. Be it said to his credit, he tapped
that round red chin only twice. There is little to be gained by an
unnecessarily large score.
Those two taps, little heavier than love pats, stirred up something deep
in Red’s nature. His men were looking on a new man. Not that they thought
the less of him for it. Rough and ready men of the northern wilds, they
understood as few ever do.
Then things began to happen fast. Red lunged at Johnny. The boy dodged.
The man came at him again. In one of those seconds when reason goes on a
vacation, Johnny tried one more pulled punch to the chin. He did not pull
it fast enough. Red McGee fell upon that punch as a polar bear falls upon
a spear.
There came a resounding thwack. Then, doubling up like an empty sack, Red
McGee spread himself neatly on the floor. He was out for much more than
the count of ten.
The hush that followed was appalling. But the shout that followed!
Nothing Johnny had ever before heard even remotely resembled it. Perhaps
a gladiator in the Roman Arena, had he returned from the dead, might have
recognized it with joy or fear.
In vain did Johnny try to analyze that sound. Was it a cheer? Or was it a
curse? Should he be carried out like a football hero or crushed by an
infuriated mob?
Strangely enough, as he stood there half paralyzed by the sudden shock of
it all, he was conscious of one voice. Above the shout had risen a
woman’s scream. And he had not known there was a woman in the place. Who
was she? Where had she come from? Why was she here?
“It’s all right, boys,” he heard a big voice boom. “He didn’t aim to do
it. He pulled his punch. Twice he did it. He—”
The speaker broke off short. There was a girl at his side, or perhaps a
young lady. Johnny was not sure. A round, freckled face and angry eyes,
that was all he saw. In another second she would have been at him, tooth
and nail. But the big foreman, who had done the talking, wrapped a long
arm about her waist as he said, “It’s all right, Rusty. Everything is O.
K., child. He didn’t aim to do it. An’ your daddy ain’t hurt none to
speak of. It’s what they call a knockout. He’ll be ’round in a twinkle.”
At that the girl hid her face in the foreman’s jacket to murmur fiercely,
“The brute! The ugly little brute!”
And Johnny knew she meant him. Because she was a girl, because he had
hurt her and he felt miserable, he slipped back into the outer fringe of
the milling throng.