The Bull Dog Breed Retrained
by Roberta E. Howard
Copyright 2010 Roberta E. Howard
A Sailor Stef Costigyn story
A Gender Switch Adventure
'And so,' concluded the Old Woman, 'this big bully ducked the seltzer bottle and the next thing I knowed I knowed nothin'. I come to with the general idee that the Sea Boy was sinkin' with all hands and I was drownin'--but it was only some chump pourin' water all over me to bring me to. Oh, yeah, the big French cluck I had the row with was nobody much, I learned--just only merely nobody but Tigra Valois, the heavyweight champion of the French navy--'
Me and the crew winked at each other. Until the captain decided to unburden to Penrhyn, the first mate, in our hearing, we'd wondered about the black eye she'd sported following her night ashore in Manila. She'd been in an unusual bad temper ever since, which means she'd been acting like a sore-tailed hyena. The Old Woman was a Taffy, and she hated a Froggy like she hated a snake. She now turned on me.
'If you was any part of a woman, you big mick ham,' she said bitterly, 'you wouldn't stand around and let a blankety-blank French so-on and so-forth layout your captain. Oh, yeah, I know you wasn't there, then, but if you'll fight her--'
'Aragh!' I said with sarcasm, 'leavin' out the fact that I'd stand a great chance of gettin' matched with Valois--why not pick me somethin' easy, like Dempsey? Do you realize you're askin' me, a ordinary ham-an'-egger, to climb the original and only Tigra Valois that's whipped everything in European and the Asian waters and looks like a sure bet for the world's title?'
'Gerahh!' snarled the Old Woman. 'Me that's boasted in every port of the Seven Seas that I shipped the toughest crew since the days of Hattie Morgan--'She turned her back in disgust and immediately fell over my white bulldog, Mika, who was taking a snooze by the hatch. The Old Woman give a howl as she come up and booted the innocent pup most severe. Mika instantly attached himself to the Old Woman's leg, from which I at last succeeded in prying her with a loss of some meat and the pants leg.
The captain danced hither and yon about the deck on one foot while she expressed her feelings at some length and the crew stopped work to listen and admire.
'And get me right, Stef Costigyn,' she wound up, 'the Sea Boy is too small for me and that double-dash dog. She goes ashore at the next port. Do you hear me?'
'Then I go ashore with her,' I answered with dignity. 'It was not Mika what caused you to get a black eye, and if you had not been so taken up in abusin' me you would not have fell over her.
'Mika is a Dublin gentlewoman, and no Welsh water rat can boot her and get away with it. If you want to banish your best A.B. mariner, it's up to you. Till we make port you keep your boots off of Mika, or I will personally kick you loose from your spine. If that's mutiny, make the most of it--and, Miss First Mate, I see you easin' toward that belayin' pin on the rail, and I call to your mind what I done to the last woman that hit me with a belayin' pin.'
There was a coolness between me and the Old Woman thereafter. The old nut was pretty rough and rugged, but good at heart, and likely she was ashamed of herself, but she was too stubborn to admit it, besides still being sore at me and Mika. Well, she paid me off without a word at Hong Kong, and I went down the gangplank with Mika at my heels, feeling kind of queer and empty, though I wouldn't show it for nothing, and acted like I was glad to get off the old tub. But since I growed up, the Sea Boy's been the only home I knowed, and though I've left his from time to time to prowl around loose or to make a fight tour, I've always come back to him.
Now I knowed I couldn't come back, and it hit me hard. The Sea Boy is the only thing I'm champion of, and as I went ashore I heard the sound of Missy Hansen and Billie O'Brien trying to decide which should succeed to my place of honor.
*
Well, maybe some will say I should of sent Mika ashore and stayed on, but to my mind, a woman that won't stand by her dog is lower down than one which won't stand by her fellow woman.
Some years ago I'd picked Mika up wandering around the wharfs of Dublin and fighting everything she met on four legs and not averse to tackling two-legged critters. I named her Mika after a sister of mine, Iron Mika Costigyn, rather well known in them higher fight circles where I've never gotten to.
Well, I wandered around the dives and presently fell in with Toma Roche, a lean, fighting engineer that I once knocked out in Liverpool. We meandered around, drinking here and there, though not very much, and presently found ourselves in a dump a little different from the general run. A French joint, kinda more highbrow, if you get me. A lot of swell-looking fellows was in there drinking, and the bartenders and waiters, all French, scowled at Mika, but said nothing. I was unburdening my woes to Toma, when I noticed a tall, elegant young woman with a dress suit, cane and gloves stroll by our table. She seemed well known in the dump, because birds all around was jumping up from their tables and waving their glasses and yelling at her in French. She smiled back in a superior manner and flourished her cane in a way which irritated me. This galoot rubbed me the wrong way right from the start, see?
Well, Mika was snoozing close to my chair as usual, and, like any other fighter, Mika was never very particular where she chose to snooze. This big bimbo could have stepped over her or around her, but she stopped and prodded Mika with her cane. Mika opened one eye, looked up and lifted her lip in a polite manner, just like she was sayin': 'We don't want no trouble; go 'long and leave me alone.'
Then this French dipthong drawed back her patent leather shoe and kicked Mika hard in the ribs. I was out of my chair in a second, seeing red, but Mika was quicker. She shot up off the floor, not for the Froggy's leg, but for her throat. But the Froggy, quick as a flash, crashed her heavy cane down across Mika's head, and the bulldog hit the floor and laid still. The next minute the Froggy hit the floor, and believe me she laid still! My right-hander to the jaw put her down, and the crack her head got against the corner of the bar kept her there.
I bent over Mika, but she was already coming around, in spite of the fact that a loaded cane had been broken over her head. It took a blow like that to put Mika out, even for a few seconds. The instant she got her bearings, her eyes went red and she started out to find what hit her and tear it up. I grabbed her, and for a minute it was all I could do to hold her. Then the red faded out of her eyes and she wagged her stump of a tail and licked my nose. But I knowed the first good chance she had at the Froggy she'd rip out her throat or die trying. The only way you can lick a bulldog is to kill her.
Being taken up with Mika I hadn't had much time to notice what was going on. But a gang of French sailors had tried to rush me and had stopped at the sight of a gun in Toma Roche's hand. A real fighting woman was Toma, and a bad egg to fool with.
By this time the Froggy had woke up; she was standing with a handkerchief at her mouth, which latter was trickling blood, and honest to Jupiter I never saw such a pair of eyes on a human! Her face was dead white, and those black, burning eyes blazed out at me--say, fellows!--they carried more than hate and a desire to muss me up! They was mutilation and sudden death! Once I seen a famous duelist in Heidelberg who'd killed ten women in sword fights--he had just such eyes as this fellow.
A gang of Frenchies was around her all whooping and yelling and jabbering at once, and I couldn't understand a word none of them said. Now one come prancing up to Toma Roche and shook her fist in Toma's face and pointed at me and yelled, and pretty soon Toma turned around to me and said: 'Stef, this yam is challengin' you to a duel--what about?'
I thought of the German duelist and said to myself: 'I bet this bird was born with a fencin' sword in one hand and a duelin' pistol in the other.' I opened my mouth to say
'Nothin' doin'--'when Toma pipes: 'You're the challenged party--the choice of weapons is up to you.'
At that I hove a sigh of relief and a broad smile flitted across my homely but honest countenance. 'Tell her I'll fight her,' I said, 'with five-ounce boxin' gloves.'
Of course I figured this bird never saw a boxing glove. Now, maybe you think I was doing her dirty, pulling a fast one like that--but what about her? All I was figuring on was mussing her up a little, counting on her not knowing a left hook from a neutral corner--takin' a mean advantage, maybe, but she was counting on killing me, and I'd never had a sword in my hand, and couldn't hit the side of a barn with a gun.
Well, Toma told them what I said and the cackling and gibbering bust out all over again, and to my astonishment I saw a cold, deadly smile waft itself across the sinister, handsome face of my tete-a-tete.
'They ask who you are,' said Toma. 'I told 'em Stef Costigyn, of America. This bird says her name is Frances, which she opines is enough for you. She says that she'll fight you right away at the exclusive Napoleon Club, which it seems has a ring account of it occasionally sponsoring prize fights.'
*
As we wended our way toward the aforesaid club, I thought deeply. It seemed very possible that this Frances, whoever she was, knew something of the manly art. Likely, I thought, a rich clubman who took up boxing for a hobby. Well, I reckoned she hadn't heard of me, because no amateur, however rich, would think she had a chance against Stef Costigyn, known in all ports as the toughest sailor in the Asian waters--if I do say so myself--and champion of--what I mean--ex-champion of the Sea Boy, the toughest of all the trading vessels.
A kind of pang went through me just then at the thought that my days with the old tub was ended, and I wondered what sort of a dub would take my place at mess and sleep in my bunk, and how the forecastle gang would haze her, and how all the crew would mister me--I wondered if Billie O'Brien had licked Missy Hansen or if the Dane had won, and who called himself champion of the craft now--
Well, I felt low in spirits, and Mika knowed it, because she snuggled up closer to me in the 'rickshaw that was carrying us to the Napoleon Club, and licked my hand. I pulled her ears and felt better. Anyway, Mika wouldn't never desert me.
Pretty ritzy affair this club. Footmen or butlers or something in uniform at the doors, and they didn't want to let Mika in. But they did--oh, yeah, they did.
In the dressing room they give me, which was the swellest of its sort I ever see, and looked more like a boy's boodwar than a fighter's dressing room, I said to Toma: 'This big ham must have lots of dough--notice what a hand they all give her? Reckon I'll get a square deal? Who's goin' to referee? If it's a Froggy, how'm I gonna follow the count?'
'Well, gee whiz!' Toma said, 'you ain't expectin' her to count over you, are you?'
'No,' I said. 'But I'd like to keep count of what she tolls off over the other fellow.'
'Well,' said Toma, helping me into the green trunks they'd give me, 'don't worry none. I understand Frances can speak English, so I'll specify that the referee shall converse entirely in that language.'
'Then why didn't this Frances ham talk English to me?' I wanted to know.
'She didn't talk to you in anything,' Toma reminded me. 'She's a swell and thinks you're beneath her notice--except only to knock your head off.'
'H'mm,' said I thoughtfully, gently touching the slight cut which Frances' cane had made on Mika's incredibly hard head. A slight red mist, I will admit, waved in front of my eyes.
When I climbed into the ring I noticed several things: mainly the room was small and elegantly furnished; second, there was only a small crowd there, mostly French, with a scattering of English and one Chink in English clothes. There was high hats, frock-tailed coats and gold-knobbed canes everywhere, and I noted with some surprise that they was also a sprinkling of French sailors.
I sat in my corner, and Mika took her stand just outside, like she always does when I fight, standing on her hind legs with her head and forepaws resting on the edge of the canvas, and looking under the ropes. On the street, if a woman soaks me she's likely to have Mika at her throat, but the old dog knows how to act in the ring. She won't interfere, though sometimes when I'm on the canvas or bleeding bad her eyes get red and she rumbles away down deep in her throat.
*
Tom was massaging my muscles light-like and I was scratching Mika's ears when into the ring comes Frances the Mysterious. Oui! Oui! I noted now how much of a woman she was, and Toma whispers to me to pull in my chin a couple of feet and stop looking so goofy. When Frances threw off her silk embroidered bathrobe I saw I was in for a rough session, even if this bird was only an amateur. She was one of these fellows that look like a fighting woman, even if they've never seen a glove before.
A good six one and a half she stood, or an inch and a half taller than me. A powerful neck sloped into broad, flexible shoulders, a limber steel body tapered to a girlishly slender waist. Her legs was slim, strong and shapely, with narrow feet that looked speedy and sure; her arms was long, thick, but perfectly molded. Oh, I tell you, this Frances looked more like a champion than any woman I'd seen since I saw Dempsey last.
And the face--his sleek black hair was combed straight back and lay smooth on her head, adding to her sinister good looks. From under narrow black brows them eyes burned at me, and now they wasn't a duelist's eyes--they was tiger eyes. And when she gripped the ropes and dipped a couple of times, flexing her muscles, them muscles rippled under her satiny skin most beautiful, and she looked just like a big cat sharpening her claws on a tree.
'Looks fast, Stef,' Toma Roche said, looking serious. 'May know somethin'; you better crowd her from the gong and keep rushin'--'
'How else did I ever fight?' I asked.
A sleek-looking Froggy with a sheik mustache got in the ring and, waving her hands to the crowd, which was still jabbering for Frances, she bust into a gush of French.
'What's she mean?' I asked Toma, and Toma said, 'Aw, she's just sayin' what everybody knows--that this ain't a regular prize fight, but an affair of honor between you and--uh--that Frances fellow there.'
Toma called her and talked to her in French, and she turned around and called an Englisher out of the crowd. Toma asked me was it all right with me for the Englisher to referee, and I tells her yes, and they asked Frances and she nodded in a supercilious manner. So the referee asked me what I weighed and I told her, and she hollered: 'This bout is to be at catch weights, Marquis of Queensberry rules. Three-minute rounds, one minute rest; to a finish, if it takes all night. In this corner, Madame Frances, weight 205 pounds; in this corner, Stef Costigyn of America, weight 190 pounds. Are you ready, gentlewomen?'
'Stead of standing outside the ring, English style, the referee stayed in with us, American fashion. The gong sounded and I was out of my corner. All I seen was that cold, sneering, handsome face, and all I wanted to do was to spoil it. And I very nearly done it the first charge. I came in like a house afire and I walloped Frances with an overhand right hook to the chin--more by sheer luck than anything, and it landed high. But it shook her to her toes, and the sneering smile faded.
*
Too quick for the eye to follow, her straight left beat my left hook, and it packed the jarring kick that marks a puncher. The next minute, when I missed with both hands and got that left in my pan again, I knowed I was up against a mistress boxer, too.
I saw in a second I couldn't match her for speed and skill. She was like a cat; each move she made was a blur of speed, and when she hit she hit quick and hard. She was a brainy fighter--he thought out each move while traveling at high speed, and she was never at a loss what to do next.
Well, my only chance was to keep on top of her, and I kept crowding her, hitting fast and heavy. She wouldn't stand up to me, but back-pedaled all around the ring. Still, I got the idea that she wasn't afraid of me, but was retreating with a purpose of her own. But I never stop to figure out why the other bird does someth
ing.
She kept reaching me with that straight left, until finally I dived under it and sank my right deep into her midriff. It shook her--it should of brought her down. But she clinched and tied me up so I couldn't hit or do nothing. As the referee broke us Frances scraped her glove laces across my eyes. With an appropriate remark, I threw my right at her head with everything I had, but she drifted out of the way, and I fell into the ropes from the force of my own swing. The crowd howled with laughter, and then the gong sounded.
'This baby's tough,' said Toma, back in my corner, as she rubbed my belly muscles, 'but keep crowdin' her, get inside that left, if you can. And watch the right.'
I reached back to scratch Mika's nose and said, 'You watch this round.'
Well, I reckon it was worth watching. Frances changed her tactics, and as I come in she met me with a left to the nose that started the claret and filled my eyes full of water and stars. While I was thinking about that she opened a cut under my left eye with a venomous right-hander and then stuck the same hand into my midriff. I woke up and bent her double with a savage left hook to the liver, crashing her with an overhand right behind the ear before she could straighten. She shook her head, snarled a French cuss word and drifted back behind that straight left where I couldn't reach her.
I went into her like a whirlwind, lamming head on full into that left jab again and again, trying to get to her, but always my swings were short. Them jabs wasn't hurting me yet, because it takes a lot of them to weaken a woman. But it was like running into a floating brick wall, if you get what I mean. Then she started crossing her right--and oh, baby, what a right she had! Blip! Blim! Blam!
Her rally was so unexpected and she hit so quick that she took me clean off my guard and caught me wide open. That right was lightning! In a second I was groggy, and Frances beat me back across the ring with both hands going too fast for me to block more than about a fourth of the blows. She was wild for the kill now and hitting wide open.
Then the ropes was at my back and I caught a flashing glimpse of her, crouching like a big tiger in front of me, wide open and starting her right. In that flash of a second I shot my right from the hip, beat her punch and landed solid to the button. Frances went down like she'd been hit with a pile driver--the referee leaped forward--the gong sounded!
The Bull Dog Breed Retrained Page 1