Chapter XI: 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.