quite a novice in the use of my fists, my brother Tom, who,
before he went to Oxford and got priggish, had bought a set of boxing-
gloves, having made me put them on with him, sometimes, and showed me
how to keep a firm guard and when to hit. My experience was invariably
to get the worst of these amicable encounters, for I used to be knocked
off my pins, besides feeling my forehead soft and pulpy; for, no matter
how well padded gloves may be, a fellow can give a sturdy punch with
them, or appreciate one, all the same. Still, the practice stood me in
good stead on this eventful occasion, especially as my brother had well
drilled me into being light on my feet and dexterous in the art of
stepping forward to deliver a blow and backward to avoid one--no small
advantage, and the resource of science over brute force.

So, holding my right arm well across my chest and just about level with
it, so that I could raise it either up or down as quick as lightning, to
protect my face or body, I advanced my left fist, and waited for Sam
Weeks to come on with a rush, as I was certain he would do, bracing
myself well on my legs to receive the shock, although the pitching of
the ship made me somewhat more uncertain of my equilibrium than if the
combat had taken place ashore.

My antagonist acted exactly as I had expected.

Whirling his arms round like those of a windmill, he beat down my guard
and gave me a nasty thump with one of them on the side of the head, for
being lanky, as I said, he had a longer reach than I; however, as he got
in close enough, my left fist caught him clean between the eyes again,
landing on the identically same spot where I had hit him before, the
place being already swollen, and whereas I only staggered against the
windlass from his blow, mine sent him tumbling backwards, and he would
have fallen on the deck if Matthews had not held him up just in time.

"Bray-vo, dark 'un!" shouted one of the men standing around,
complimenting me on having the best of this first exchange, and alluding
no doubt to the colour of my hair, which was dark brown while that of
Weeks was quite sandy, like light Muscovado sugar. "Give him a one-two
next time; there's nothing like the double!"

"I'll back freckles," cried another; "he's got more go in him!"

"Arrah, laive 'em alone, can't ye?" said the boatswain, as we faced each
other again. "Don't waste y'r toime, sure. Go it, ye chripples; an'
may the bist av ye win, sez I