Blake stood, for a moment, dumbfounded, unable to credit his eyes; there was a clattering of draught boards as sailors who had been playing sprung up, a hissing of sharply in-drawn breath, and then a ring of human bodies formed in a twinkling; a circle of tense faces showed the interest that was excited in the breasts of all. The master’s mate was slow of brain; but when he at last realized that a combat was inevitable, he manifested much savage satisfaction. “I’ve got you safe now,” said he, as he stripped off his shirt in turn. “And I’ll beat you so badly that you’ll think keel-hauling is play in comparison.” “You’ll never beat him by talking about it, my bucko,” said Longsword, grimly, still grooming his principal in a very workmanlike manner. In a moment the two had faced each other. The bulk of the Canadian seaman and the slenderness of the young American were now, more than ever, evident. But Blake was muscle bound, ponderous in his movements and scant of wind; nevertheless he was a formidable foe, for his bulk suggested power, and his cruel expression denoted a merciless nature. Ethan’s frame was strong, but needed the filling that years would bring; his muscles, thanks to the effort of Longsword, were those of a trained athlete, but when compared with the bully he looked almost frail. The watch below noted all this; they also saw the panther-like grace with which the lad advanced to the centre of the human ring, and marked the lumbering movements of Blake as he did likewise. “Mind yourself,” warned the Irish dragoon as he sent his man forward. “Don’t let him clinch. He’ll have ye then, Master Ethan.” The two met in the centre and raised their guards. Ethan’s was free, swinging and low; Blake’s was high and held as rigid as iron. With short cat-like steps Ethan wove in and out; the bully watched him narrowly; the regular opening and closing of his hands showed that he was meditating a rush--a grapple--and then Ethan would be at his mercy. The great weight of the man must crush the slighter boy to the deck. Around and around crept the soft-footed young athlete; Blake wheeled constantly to face him, still holding his high, rigid guard. Suddenly the man’s bulging muscles grew tense; Ethan knew that another moment would bring the expected rush; with the speed of lightning his right shot out and landed a smashing blow in the other’s wind; then he went dancing away, a smile upon his lips. The lad continued to follow these tactics. Every time Blake stepped in to clinch, Ethan’s left hand would dart in a quick stab. Each succeeding failure to get within reach made Blake more and more ferocious; the lad’s tantalizing smile, and Longsword’s words of advice, served to almost madden him.