“Those robber in picshur make all boy bad.  The governor he say that maybe he stop that Bill ’Art kind of picshur.  Some Tahiti boy steal horse and throw rope on other boy for lassoo.”

When the screen was removed, a roped enclosure, a square “ring,” was disclosed.  The announcer spoke in Tahitian of the signal achievements of the two fighters, of their determination to do their best then and there.  The women cheered these declarations.  Seated just below me was a red-headed French girl, with perhaps a slight infusion of Polynesian blood, who had a baby in a perambulator.  Her strawberry plaits dangled temptingly as she cooed to the baby.  She was for Opeta, the foreign competitor.

A white-haired Australian woman, with a strong accent, favored Teaea, and when the Raratonga youth was winning, shouted to Teaea: 

“’It ’im ‘arder, Ol’ Peet!  ’E’s outa wind!  Knock ’is shell hoff!”

The Casino de Tahiti had two galleries, and in the topmost, at a franc, five sous each, sat the little gods, as with us.  Others were perched on doors, on projections of cornices, and in every nook.

The fighters were naked except for breech-clouts.  They were barefooted.  They wore their hair longish, and it appeared like rough, black caps, which now and again fell over their faces and was flung back by a toss of their heads.  They were handsome men, framed symmetrically, lithe, and healthy-looking.  Their bodies soon shone with the sweat.  Their eyes, as soft as velvet to begin, grew fiery as they punished each other.  In truth, this punishment was not severe from American prize-ring standards.  The islander was unused to blows, and the gloves were of the biggest size, such as those worn by business men in gymnasiums.

Opeta had as seconds American beach-combers; and Teaea, natives.  They had all the pugilistic appurtenances of towels, bottles, etcetera, and fanned and rubbed their men between rounds as if they were matched for a fortune.

Teaea had a green ribbon in his loin-cloth.  He was taller and heavier than Opeta, but showed his inferiority quickly.  They danced about and fiddled for an opening, sparred for wind, and did all the fancy footwork of the fifth-class fighter, but they seldom came together except in clinches.  The referee, the Christchurch Kid, was the martyr, for he had to pull them apart every minute.  The rounds were of two minutes’ duration, and the rests one minute.  After seven very tame rounds, the spectators became angered, and in the eighth Teaea went down, and took the count of ten on his hands and feet, warily watching his opponent.  In the ninth, Opeta, excited by the demands of the gallery, slugged him in the head.  Teaea sought the boards again, and the counting of ten by the referee began.

The Mataiea boxer was on his back, but his glazing eyes stared reproachfully at Opeta.  The latter, now clearly the victor, glanced at the red-headed girl, who was dancing on the floor beside her perambulator and waving her congratulations.  The house was on its feet yelling wildly to Teaea to rise.  Those who had bet on him were calling him a knave and a coward, while Opeta’s backers were imploring him to kill Teaea if he stood up.  The Raratonga champion became excited, confused and when Teaea, at the call of eight, cautiously turned over and lifted his head, he struck him lightly.