Nothing worthy of remark happened while we were here, except a little boxing-match on board our own ship, which gave us something to talk about.  Our broad-backed, big-headed Cape Cod boy, about sixteen years old, had been playing the bully, for the whole voyage, over a slender, delicate-looking boy from one of the Boston schools, and over whom he had much the advantage in strength, age, and experience in the ship’s duty, for this was the first time the Boston boy had been on salt water.  The latter, however, had ``picked up his crumbs,’’ was learning his duty, and getting strength and confidence daily, and began to assert his rights against his oppressor.  Still, the other was his master, and, by his superior strength, always tackled with him and threw him down.  One afternoon, before we were turned-to, these boys got into a violent squabble in the between-decks, when George (the Boston boy) said he would fight Nat if he could have fair play.  The chief mate heard the noise, dove down the hatchway, hauled them both up on deck, and told them to shake hands and have no more trouble for the voyage, or else they should fight till one gave in for beaten.  Finding neither willing to make an offer of reconciliation, he called all hands up (for the captain was ashore, and he could do as he chose aboard), ranged the crew in the waist, marked a line on the deck, brought the two boys up to it, making them ``toe the mark’’; then made the bight of a rope fast to a belaying-pin, and stretched it across the deck, bringing it just above their waists. ``No striking below the rope!’’ And there they stood, one on each side of it, face to face, and went at it like two game-cocks.  The Cape Cod boy, Nat, put in his double-fisters, starting the blood, and bringing the black-and-blue spots all over the face and arms of the other, whom we expected to see give in every moment; but, the more he was hurt, the better he fought.  Again and again he was knocked nearly down, but up he came again and faced the mark, as bold as a lion, again to take the heavy blows, which sounded so as to make one’s heart turn with pity for him.  At length he came up to the mark the last time, his shirt torn from his body, his face covered with blood and bruises, and his eyes flashing fire, and swore he would stand there until one or the other was killed, and set-to like a young fury. ``Hurrah in the bow!’’ said the men, cheering him on. ``Never say die, while there’s a shot in the locker!’’ Nat tried to close with him, knowing his advantage, but the mate stopped that, saying there should be fair play, and no fingering.  Nat then came up to the mark, but looked white about the mouth, and his blows were not given with half the spirit of his first.  Something was the matter.  I was not sure whether he was cowed, or, being good-natured, he did not care to beat the boy any more.  At all events he faltered.  He had always been master, and had nothing to gain and everything to lose; while the other fought for