he's free to do as he likes and never lift a hand till we reach port.
Aye, lick your chops, you dogs. There's none of you had the heart to
try what Harrigan is going to try."

If they did not actually lick their chops, there was hunger in their
eyes and a strange wistfulness as they watched Harrigan strip off his
shirt, but when they saw the wasted arms, lean, with the muscles
defined and corded as if by famine, their faces went blank again. For
they glanced in turn at the vast torso of McTee. When he moved his
arms, his smooth shoulders rippled in significant spots--the spots
where the driving muscles lay. But Harrigan saw nothing save the throat
of which he had dreamed.

"This is to the finish?" said McTee.

"Aye."

"And no quarter?"

Harrigan grinned, and slipped out to the middle of the deck. Both of
them kicked off their shoes. Even in their bare feet it would be
difficult to keep upright, for the _Mary Rogers_ was rollicking through
a choppy sea. Harrigan sensed the crew standing in a loose circle with
the hunger of the wolf pack in winter stamped in their eyes.

McTee stood with his feet braced strongly, his hands poised. But
Harrigan stole about him with a gliding, unequal step. He did not seem
preparing to strike with his hands, which hung low, but rather like one
who would leap at the throat with his teeth. The ship heaved and
Harrigan sprang and his fists cracked--one, two. He leaped out again