But having caught the flame in the eye that never once looked away from his, the bosun wanted no more of that long-range work.  It must be close quarters thereafter, or he foresaw disgrace.  He appealed to the men at his back.  “He won’t stand up like a man.  He leaps around like a bloody monkey.”

“That’s right, bosun.  Stand up to him there, you!” That was the carpenter’s voice.  And others followed.  ’Twasn’t so men’d been used to fightin’ on oil-tankers.  No, sir.  “Stand to him breast to breast!” The carpenter led further clamorous voices.

“Aye, breast to breast be it.”  Kieran was standing at ease.  “And yet you all been telling how he drove his fist through a pine plank the other day up on the New York water-front.”

“Yes, an’ I c’n drive it through you, if yer come close to me.”

“Close to you?  Is this close enough to you?” No more side-stepping, no more swift shifting—­just a straight step in, and they were clinched.  With arms wrapped around the body of the other, each an inside and outside hold, and fingers locked in the small of the other’s back, they were at it.  One tentative tug and haul and the bosun began to see that he would need all his strength for this man.  Another long-drawn tug and he began to fear the outcome.  Again, and in place of his foe coming to him, it was his own waist he felt drawn forward.  Slowly he felt his head falling back, and gradually his shoulders followed.  In toward Kieran came the hollow of the big man’s back, and the big man knew he had met his master; and, bitterest of all, this man poured galling words into his ear as he bore him back; gibing words, in so low a voice that they reached no further than the ear for which they were intended.

“Your own favorite Cumberland grip—­where’s the whale strength of you now, Bruiser Bill—­your buffalo rush, hah?  It’s my weakness to make a show of you here on this deck—­you, my Bruising Bill, the boastful lump of muscle that you are.  Just muscle, no more.  And now where are you—­where, I say?”

The long, smooth muscles of Kieran’s back were gathering and swelling.  His waist, contrasted with the splendid development under his shoulders, looked slim as a corseted girl’s; and not Noyes alone was noting them.  Every muscle in the smooth-skinned body—­it seemed as if he drew them from his very toes for service in that hug.

The bosun’s breath was coming in labored gasps, yet still that terrible man kept holding him close, drawing his waist to him and increasing his pressure as he drew.  “You’ve the tonnage and engine-room of a battleship,” jeered Kieran, “but you’ve only the steam of an East River tug.  And a low-pressure tug at that.  And what little steam you had is gone.  You’ve a big engine but no boiler.  And you know what use an engine is without a boiler, don’t you?  Well, that’s you, son—­your steam’s gone.”