FIVE ROUNDS AND A FRIEND
It may seem a little strange that MacGregor and his young companions
accepted the whole situation so calmly. Yet the old man had lived long
and in many places. He was wise in the ways of the world. He realized
that they had already seen too much to be released at once. How long
would they be detained? To this question he could form no answer. Perhaps
until the end of the legal fishing season, twenty or more days away.
Perhaps longer. They might even be taken to the Orient. After that some
fantastic story might be told of their being picked up adrift on the high
seas.
Johnny was thinking along these same lines. But he, unlike MacGregor, was
already laying plans for escape. For the present, however, he was willing
to bide his time.
Dinner was brought to them by a smiling little brown man. It was not a
bad meal, as meals go on the sea—boiled rice, baked salmon and tea.
When it was over, MacGregor slipped out into the gathering night. While
he was gone not a word was spoken. Johnny was busy with his own thoughts.
So, he supposed, was the girl who now looked so very much like a boy.
He was thinking, “I wonder if there were shadows passing us in the fog.
Or did we imagine them?” Certainly he had seen nothing resembling a
shadow here. And this girl. Would she forgive him? Well enough he knew
that in trying times such as these people were either drawn closer
together or driven farther apart. He could only wait and see.
“There’s hope in the airplane that young Dan MacMillan is bringing up,”
he thought with fresh courage. “If only he’d arrive and fly over this
ship we’d manage somehow to signal him and then the whole navy would be
on this old freighter’s heels.”
He was thinking now of something told to him in secret by Red McGee. He
had been speaking of the cannery. It had been built by old Chad
MacMillan. A crusty, honest, fair-dealing man, he had managed it for many
years.
“Then he died,” Red had gone on, “and young Dan MacMillan, just out of
university and full of big ideas, inherited it. This winter I suggested
that he hire a seaplane to go out scouting for these Oriental robbers.
“‘It’s a fine idea,’ he said to me. ‘A grand idea. I’ll buy a seaplane
and learn to pilot it. You’ll be seeing me up there scouting around as
soon as the salmon season opens.’
“That’s what he said to me,” Red McGee had drawn in a deep breath. “These
wild young millionaires! What can you expect? He’s not here now and like
as not won’t show up at all.”
“What can you expect?” Johnny was thinking over his words now. “If only
Dan MacMillan showed up over this old craft all these little brown men
would be scared out of their skins.”
But would he come? He dared not so much as hope.
He wondered about Lawrence and Blackie. He suffered a pang because of
Lawrence. What a shame that he had dragged the boy up here! He would be
far better off in Matanuska valley planting turnips and potatoes, hunting
wild geese, and, perhaps, catching a glacier bear way back in the
mountains.
But here was MacGregor. And he carried in his hands, of all things, two
pairs of boxing gloves. Johnny had wondered where they were to come from,
but now here they were.
“These little brown boys go in strong for boxing,” the old man explained.
“I told them,” continued MacGregor, “that you were one of America’s most
promising young boxers, but a little out of training.”
“Quite a little,” Johnny agreed.
“I said you and your boy pal would put on an exhibition match on deck
tonight.”
Rusty shot him a look, but said never a word.
“I hope you understand,” the old man said soberly, “that I am asking you
to do this for your own good.” He was talking to Rusty.
She bowed gravely. Then, of a sudden, her face brightened. “I hope they
take us lightly,” she said. “That may give us a chance to escape.”
“That’s what it will,” MacGregor agreed. “And this boxin’ stunt is just
the thing to put them off their guard.”
A half hour later, beneath a brilliant electric light, with a circle of
dark faces about them, Johnny and Rusty shook hands for the first time in
their lives, then drew on the gloves.
Johnny had boxed strange people in many an out-of-the-way place. Never
before had he boxed with a girl. He was not sure he was going to like it
now. But with MacGregor as manager of the strange affair, there was no
turning back.
It _was_ strange, there was no getting around that. A swaying light, a
host of sober, brown faces, the gray fog hanging over all, made it seem
fantastic indeed.
There were to be five short rounds with MacGregor keeping time.
At the very beginning, Johnny discovered that his opponent was fast and
skillful. Having no sons, Red McGee had taken it upon himself to train
his daughter in the manly art of boxing. Life on the bleak Alaskan shore
was often dull. The girl had welcomed each new lesson. And now Johnny was
discovering that her punches that from time to time reached his cheek or
chin, were far from love pats. They really stung, nor, try as he would,
could he entirely escape them.
“She’s taking it out on me because of her father,” he thought grimly.
“Well, I can take it.”
What did the audience think of this affair? Who could tell? They watched
in silence. Once when Rusty was tossed into their midst they helped her
to her feet and pushed her into place. Their movements were so gentle,
the flitting smiles about their lips so friendly, that, for the moment,
the girl forgot her role and said, “Thank you.”
The rounds passed speedily. When the fourth and last was up, Johnny said
in a whisper, “Come on, Rusty, let’s make this one snappy. Give them a
real show.”
Snappy it was. From the moment MacGregor gave them the signal they
whipped into it with a wild swinging of gloves. Rusty’s footwork was
perfect. Johnny found himself admiring the manner in which, hornet-like,
she leaped at him for a sharp, stinging blow, then faded away.
Perhaps he was admiring her too much. However that might be, in the last
thirty seconds of the bout he stepped into something. Trying for a bit of
reprisal in the way of a tap on her chin, he left an opening far too
wide. Rusty’s eyes opened wide, her stout right arm shot out and up. It
took Johnny squarely under the chin and, “believe it or not,” he went
down and out like a match.
He was not out long, perhaps eight seconds. When at last his stubborn
eyelids opened he found himself looking at a circle of grinning brown men
and at Rusty who stood staring at him, but not smiling at all.
“Well,” he laughed, “that must square the McGee’s with Johnny Thompson.”
“John—Johnny, please!” she cried. “I didn’t mean to. I truly didn’t.”
“All right.” Johnny sprang to his feet. “Shake on it. Let’s always be
friends.”
The girl made no response. There was no need. She did clasp his hand in a
grip that was friendly and strong.
A half hour later they were having one more cup of tea in their
staterooms and Johnny was thinking, “Life surely is strange. I wonder how
this affair will end.”
Before he fell asleep he went over it all again. Blackie and Lawrence,
the silent, moving shadow, the hard-working men on shore, the airplane
that might come. When he was too far gone in sleep to think clearly he
fancied that he felt the ship’s propeller vibrating, that the ship was on
the move. He was not sure. After all, what did it matter? There was
nothing he could do about it. And so, he fell fast asleep.