Kieran's ears had come the sound of muttering in the crowd--"shall we
get at it? We ought to make a good match of it. You may be a bit the
bigger, but no matter. Three or four inches in height and sixty or
seventy pounds, what's that? What d'you say?"--he turned to the
crew--"he's big enough to pull a mast down on deck. Are the two of us to
settle it here without interference? In the old days men fought so, the
champions in front of the armies, and the winning man allowed to ride
back unharmed to his comrades."

That picture, as the wily and eloquent pump-man painted it, impressed
them. And he looked so frail beside the bosun! They drew well back now;
all but one, the crafty carpenter, crony of the bosun and eager tool of
the captain. There was that in the pump-man's eyes--the carpenter
stepped to the big man's shoulder. "Listen to me. This man's no
innercent. I've seen his picter somewheres."

"An' he'll see something of me in a minute, an' more than a picksher. Go
away!" The boson shoved the carpenter aside.

"What I like about you, bosun"--Kieran, having shed his dungaree coat,
stood now for a moment with a hand resting easily to either side of his
waist--"and it sticks out all over you, is your love of a fight.
And"--under his breath this, so only the bosun could hear it--"I'm going
to satisfy that love of yours to-day so you'll stop your ears up if ever
again you hear a man even whisper fight. Yes"--drawing off his
undershirt, cinching his trousers straps above his hips, and resuming
his easy speech--"I do love a real fighting man. But your friends"--he
waved his hand toward the crew--"they must all stand that side. I want
no man between me and the rail this side, no man behind me. 'Tisn't
fair." He turned to them. "Play me fair in that. I'm giving your man the