“A purty lookout,” I said bitterly, “when the Sea Girl, the fightenest ship on the seven seas, ain’t represented in the melee. I gotta good mind to blow in and bust up the whole show—”
At this moment Bill O’Brien hove in sight, looking excited.
“Hot dawg!” he yelled. “Here’s a chance for us to clean up some dough!”
“Stand by to come about,” I advised, “and give us the lay.”
“Well,” Bill said, “I just been down along the waterfront listening to them squareheads argy — and, boy, is the money changin’ hands! I seen six fights already. Well, just now they come word that Dirck Jacobsen had broke his wrist, swinging for a sparrin’ partner and hittin’ the wall instead. So I run down to Neimann’s arena to find out if it was so, and the Dutchman was walkin’ the floor and tearin’ his hair. He said he’d pay a hundred bucks extra, win or lose, to a man good enough to go in with Torkilsen. He says if he calls the show off, these squareheads will hang him. So I see where we can run a Sea Girl man in and cop the jack!”
“And who you think we can use?” I asked skeptically.
“Well, there’s Mushy,” began Bill. “He was raised in America, of course, but—”
“Yeah, there’s Mushy!” snapped Mushy, bitterly. “You know as well as I do that I ain’t no Swede. I’m a Dane myself. Far from wantin’ to fight Hakon, I hope he knocks the block offa whatever fool Swede they finds to go against him.”
“That’s gratitude,” said Bill, scathingly. “How can a brainy man like me work up anything big when I gets opposition from all quarters? I lays awake nights studyin’ up plans for the betterment of my mates, and what do I get? Argyments! Wisecracks! Opposition! I tellya—”
“Aw, pipe down,” I said. “There’s Sven Larson — he’s a Swede.”
“That big ox would last about fifteen seconds against Hakon,” said Mushy, with gloomy satisfaction. “Besides, Sven’s in jail. He hadn’t been in port more’n a half hour when he got jugged for beatin’ up a cop.”
Bill fixed a gloomy gaze on me, and his eyes lighted.
“Hot dawg!” he whooped. “I got it! Steve, you’re a Swede!”
“Listen here, you flat-headed dogfish,” I began, in ire, “me and you ain’t had a fight in years, but by golly—”
“Aw, try to have some sense,” said Bill. “This is the idee: You ain’t never fought in Yokohama before. Neimann don’t know you, nor anybody else. We’ll pass you off for Swede—”
“Pass him off for a Swede?” gawped Mushy.
“Well,” said Bill, “I’ll admit he don’t look much like a Swede—”
“Much like a Swede!” I gnashed, my indignation mounting. “Why, you son of a—”
“Well, you don’t look nothin’ like a Swede then!” snapped Bill, disgustedly, “but we can pass you off for one. I reckon if we tell ’em you’re a Swede, they can’t prove you ain’t. If they dispute it, we’ll knock the daylights outa ‘em.”
I thought it over.
“Not so bad,” I finally decided. “We’ll get that hundred extra — and, for a chance to fight somebody, I’d purtend I was a Eskimo. We’ll do it.”
“Good!” said Bill. “Can you talk Swedish?”
“Sure,” I said. “Listen: Yimmy Yackson yumped off the Yacob-ladder with his monkey-yacket on. Yimminy, what a yump!”
“Purty good,” said Bill. “Come on, we’ll go down to Neimann’s and sign up. Hey, ain’t you goin’, Mushy?”
“No, I ain’t,” said Mushy sourly. “I see right now I ain’t goin’ to enjoy this scrap none. Steve’s my shipmate but Hakon’s my countryman. Whichever loses, I won’t rejoice none. I hope it’s a draw. I ain’t even goin’ to see it.”
Well, he went off by hisself, and I said to Bill, “I gotta good mind not to go on with this, since Mushy feels that way about it.”
“Aw, he’ll get over it,” said Bill. “My gosh, Steve, this here’s a matter of business. Ain’t we all busted? Mushy’ll feel all right after we split your purse three ways and he has a few shots of hard licker.”
“Well, all right,” I said. “Let’s get down to Neimann’s.”
So me and Bill and my white bulldog, Mike, went down to Neimann’s, and, as we walked in, Bill hissed, “Don’t forget to talk Swedish.”
A short, fat man, which I reckoned was Neimann, was setting and looking over a list of names, and now and then he’d take a long pull out of a bottle, and then he’d cuss fit to curl your toes, and pull his hair.
“Well, Neimann,” said Bill, cheerfully, “what you doin’?”
“I got a list of all the Swedes in port which think they can fight,” said Neimann, bitterly. “They ain’t one of ’em would last five seconds against Torkilsen. I’ll have to call it off.”
“No you won’t,” said Bill. “Right here I got the fightin’est Swede in the Asiatics!”
Neimann faced around quick to look at me, and his eyes flared, and he jumped up like he’d been stung.
“Get outa here!” he yelped. “You should come around here and mock me in my misery! A sweet time for practical jokes—”
“Aw, cool off,” said Bill. “I tell you this Swede can lick Hakon Torkilsen with his right thumb in his mouth.”
“Swede!” snorted Neimann. “You must think I’m a prize sucker, bringin’ this black-headed mick around here and tellin’ me—”
“Mick, baloney!” said Bill. “Lookit them blue eyes—”
“I’m lookin’ at ‘em,” snarled Neimann, “and thinkin’ of the lakes of Killarney all the time. Swede? Ha! Then so was Jawn L. Sullivan. So you’re a Swede, are you?”
“Sure,” I said. “Aye bane Swedish, Mister.”
“What part of Sweden?” he barked.
“Gotland,” I said, and simultaneous Bill said, “Stockholm,” and we glared at each other in mutual irritation.
“Cork, you’d better say,” sneered Neimann.
“Aye am a Swede,” I said, annoyed. “Aye want dass fight.”
“Get outa here and quit wastin’ my valuable time,” snarled Neimann. “If you’re a Swede, then I’m a Hindoo Princess!”
At this insulting insinuation I lost my temper. I despises a man that’s so suspicious he don’t trust his feller men. Grabbing Neimann by the neck with a viselike grip, and waggling a huge fist under his nose, I roared, “You insultin’ monkey! Am I a Swede or ain’t I?”
He turned pale and shook like an aspirin-leaf.
“You’re a Swede,” he agreed, weakly.
“And I get the fight?” I rumbled.
“You get it,” he agreed, wiping his brow with a bandanner. “The squareheads may stretch my neck for this, but maybe, if you keep your mouth shut, we’ll get by. What’s your name?”
“Steve—” I began, thoughtlessly, when Bill kicked me on the shin and said, “Lars Ivarson.”
“All right,” said Neimann, pessimistically, “I’ll announce it that I got a man to fight Torkilsen.”
“How much do I — how much Aye bane get?” I asked.
“I guaranteed a thousand bucks to the fighters,” he said, “to be split seven hundred to the winner and three hundred to the loser.”
“Give me das loser’s end now,” I demanded. “Aye bane go out and bet him, you betcha life.”
So he did, and said, “You better keep offa the street; some of your countrymen might ask you about the folks back home in dear old Stockholm.” And, with that, he give a bitter screech of raucous and irritating laughter, and slammed the door; and as we left, we heered him moaning like he had the bellyache.
“I don’t believe he thinks I’m a Swede,” I said, resentfully.
“Who cares?” said Bill. “We got the match. But he’s right. I’ll go place the bets. You keep outa sight. Long’s you don’t say much, we’re safe. But, if you go wanderin’ around, some squarehead’ll start talkin’ Swedish to you and we’ll be sunk.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll get me a room at the sailor’s boardin’
house we seen down Manchu Road. I’ll stay there till it’s time for the scrap.”
So Bill went off to lay the bets, and me and Mike went down the back alleys toward the place I mentioned. As we turned out of a side street into Manchu Road, somebody come around the corner moving fast, and fell over Mike, who didn’t have time to get outa the way.
The feller scrambled up with a wrathful roar. A big blond bezark he was, and he didn’t look like a sailor. He drawed back his foot to kick Mike, as if it was the dog’s fault. But I circumvented him by the simple process of kicking him severely on the shin.
“Drop it, cull,” I growled, as he begun hopping around, howling wordlessly and holding his shin. “It wasn’t Mike’s fault, and you hadn’t no cause to kick him. Anyhow, he’d of ripped yore laig off if you’d landed—”
Instead of being pacified, he gave a bloodthirsty yell and socked me on the jaw. Seeing he was one of them bull-headed mugs you can’t reason with, I banged him once with my right, and left him setting dizzily in the gutter picking imaginary violets.
Proceeding on my way to the seamen’s boardin’s house, I forgot all about the incident. Such trifles is too common for me to spend much time thinking about. But, as it come out, I had cause to remember it.
I got me a room and stayed there with the door shut till Bill come in, jubilant, and said the crew of the Sea Girl hadst sunk all the money it could borrow at heavy odds.
“If you lose,” said he, “most of us will go back to the ship wearin’ barrels.”
“Me lose?” I snorted disgustedly. “Don’t be absurd. Where’s the Old Man?”
“Aw, I seen him down at that dive of antiquity, the Purple Cat Bar, a while ago,” said Bill. “He was purty well lit and havin’ some kind of a argyment with old Cap’n Gid Jessup. He’ll be at the fight all right. I didn’t say nothin’ to him; but he’ll be there.”
“He’ll more likely land in jail for fightin’ old Gid,” I ruminated. “They hate each other like snakes. Well, that’s his own lookout. But I’d like him to see me lick Torkilsen. I heered him braggin’ about the squarehead the other day. Seems like he seen him fight once some place.”
“Well,” said Bill, “it’s nearly time for the fight. Let’s get goin’. We’ll go down back alleys and sneak into the arena from the rear, so none of them admirin’ Swedes can get ahold of you and find out you’re really a American mick. Come on!”
So we done so, accompanied by three Swedes of the Sea Girl’s crew who was loyal to their ship and their shipmates. We snuck along alleys and slunk into the back rooms of the arena, where Neimann come in to us, perspiring freely, and told us he was having a heck of a time keeping Swedes outa the dressing-room. He said numbers of ’em wanted to come in and shake hands with Lars Ivarson before he went out to uphold the fair name of Sweden. He said Hakon was getting in the ring, and for us to hustle.
So we went up the aisle hurriedly, and the crowd was so busy cheering for Hakon that they didn’t notice us till we was in the ring. I looked out over the house, which was packed, setting and standing, and squareheads fighting to get in when they wasn’t room for no more. I never knowed they was that many Scandinavians in Eastern waters. It looked like every man in the house was a Dane, a Norwegian, or a Swede — big, blond fellers, all roaring like bulls in their excitement. It looked like a stormy night.
Neimann was walking around the ring, bowing and grinning, and every now and then his gaze wouldst fall on me as I set in my corner and he wouldst shudder viserbly and wipe his forehead with his bandanner.
Meanwhile, a big Swedish sea captain was acting the part of the announcer, and was making quite a ceremony out of it. He wouldst boom out jovially, and the crowd wouldst roar in various alien tongues, and I told one of the Swedes from the Sea Girl to translate for me, which he done so in a whisper, while pertending to tie on my gloves.
This is what the announcer was saying: “Tonight all Scandinavia is represented here in this glorious forthcoming struggle for supremacy. In my mind it brings back days of the Vikings. This is a Scandinavian spectacle for Scandinavian sailors. Every man involved in this contest is Scandinavian. You all know Hakon Torkilsen, the pride of Denmark!” Whereupon, all the Danes in the crowd bellered. “I haven’t met Lars Ivarson, but the very fact that he is a son of Sweden assures us that he will prove no mean opponent for Denmark’s favored son.” It was the Swedes’ turn to roar. “I now present the referee, Jon Yarssen, of Norway! This is a family affair. Remember, whichever way the fight goes, it will lend glory to Scandinavia!”
Then he turned and pointed toward the opposite corner and roared, “Hakon Torkilsen, of Denmark!”
Again the Danes thundered to the skies, and Bill O’Brien hissed in my ear. “Don’t forget when you’re interjuiced say ‘Dis bane happiest moment of my life!’ The accent will convince ’em you’re a Swede.”
The announcer turned toward me and, as his eyes fell on me for the first time, he started violently and blinked. Then he kind of mechanically pulled hisself together and stammered, “Lars Ivarson — of — of — Sweden!”
I riz, shedding my bathrobe, and a gasp went up from the crowd like they was thunderstruck or something. For a moment a sickening silence reigned, and then my Swedish shipmates started applauding, and some of the Swedes and Norwegians took it up, and, like people always do, got louder and louder till they was lifting the roof.
Three times I started to make my speech, and three times they drowned me out, till I run outa my short stock of patience.
“Shut up, you lubbers!” I roared, and they lapsed into sudden silence, gaping at me in amazement. With a menacing scowl, I said, “Dis bane happiest moment of my life, by thunder!”
They clapped kind of feebly and dazedly, and the referee motioned us to the center of the ring. And, as we faced each other, I gaped, and he barked, “Aha!” like a hyena which sees some critter caught in a trap. The referee was the big cheese I’d socked in the alley!
I didn’t pay much attention to Hakon, but stared morbidly at the referee, which reeled off the instructions in some Scandinavian tongue. Hakon nodded and responded in kind, and the referee glared at me and snapped something and I nodded and grunted, “Ja!” just as if I understood him, and turned back toward my corner.
He stepped after me, and caught hold of my gloves. Under cover of examining ’em he hissed, so low my handlers didn’t even hear him, “You are no Swede! I know you. You called your dog ‘Mike.’ There is only one white bulldog in the Asiatics by that name! You are Steve Costigan, of the Sea Girl.”
“Keep it quiet,” I muttered nervously.
“Ha!” he snarled. “I will have my revenge. Go ahead — fight your fight. After the bout is over, I will expose you as the imposter you are. These men will hang you to the rafters.”
“Gee whiz,” I mumbled, “what you wanta do that for? Keep my secret and I’ll slip you fifty bucks after the scrap.”
He merely snorted, “Ha!” in disdain, pointing meaningly at the black eye which I had give him, and stalked back to the center of the ring.
“What did that Norwegian say to you?” Bill O’Brien asked.
I didn’t reply. I was kinda wool-gathering. Looking out over the mob, I admit I didn’t like the prospects. I hadst no doubt that them infuriated squareheads would be maddened at the knowledge that a alien had passed hisself off as one of ’em — and they’s a limit to the numbers that even Steve Costigan can vanquish in mortal combat! But about that time the gong sounded, and I forgot everything except the battle before me.
For the first time I noticed Hakon Torkilsen, and I realized why he had such a reputation. He was a regular panther of a man — a tall, rangy, beautifully built young slugger with a mane of yellow hair and cold, steely eyes. He was six feet one to my six feet, and weighed 185 to my 190. He was trained to the ounce, and his long, smooth muscles rippled under his white skin as he moved. My black mane musta contrasted strongly with his golden hair.
He come in fast and rip
ped a left hook to my head, whilst I come back with a right to the body which brung him up standing. But his body muscles was like iron ridges, and I knowed it wouldst take plenty of pounding to soften him there, even though it was me doing the pounding.
Hakon was a sharpshooter, and he begunst to shoot his left straight and fast. All my opponents does, at first, thinking I’m a sucker for a left jab. But they soon abandons that form of attack. I ignores left jabs. I now walked through a perfect hail of ’em and crashed a thundering right under Hakon’s heart which brung a astonished grunt outa him. Discarding his jabbing offensive, he started flailing away with both hands, and I wanta tell you he wasn’t throwing no powder-puffs!
It was the kind of scrapping I like. He was standing up to me, giving and taking, and I wasn’t called on to run him around the ring like I gotta do with so many of my foes. He was belting me plenty, but that’s my style, and, with a wide grin, I slugged merrily at his body and head, and the gong found us in the center of the ring, banging away.
The crowd give us a roaring cheer as we went back to our corners, but suddenly my grin was wiped off by the sight of Yarssen, the referee, cryptically indicating his black eye as he glared morbidly at me.
I determined to finish Torkilsen as quick as possible, make a bold break through the crowd, and try to get away before Yarssen had time to tell ’em my fatal secret. Just as I started to tell Bill, I felt a hand jerking at my ankle. I looked down into the bewhiskered, bewildered and bleary-eyed face of the Old Man.
“Steve!” he squawked. “I’m in a terrible jam!”
Bill O’Brien jumped like he was stabbed. “Don’t yell ‘Steve’ thataway!” he hissed. “You wanta get us all mobbed?”
“I’m in a terrible jam!” wailed the Old Man, wringing his hands. “If you don’t help me, I’m a rooined man!”
“What’s the lay?” I asked in amazement, leaning through the ropes.
“It’s Gid Jessup’s fault,” he moaned. “The serpent got me into a argyment and got me drunk. He knows I ain’t got no sense when I’m soused. He hornswoggled me into laying a bet on Torkilsen. I didn’t know you was goin’ to fight—”
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 194