“Do you mean this?” he asked.

“Ah shohly do.  Are you afraid o’ me?”

That, of course, settled matters.  The thing was not a joke, and Englishman or nigger—­black, green, white, or gray—­the plot must be licked forthwith and in accordance with the rules.

Crothers spat into his hands, while Joe Byng folded up his blouse and knelt on it.  He eyed his antagonist for at least a minute, summing him up and ignoring none of the woolly-headed one’s physical advantages in weight and strength, in height and reach, in being used to the climate and the glare, the odds were all with Hassan Ah.  Then he sized up the moral odds; and though a biased audience might be at first supposed to weigh against him too, the sight of all those Arabs waiting to see him beaten roused his fighting dander.

“Do you represent the bloke that spat on us two men?” asked Crothers.

“Ah represent maself!  Ah’m English!  Ah fight English, and Ah’ll prove it!”

“Aw, wade into him!” advised Joe Byng.  “London Prize Rules—­no time called until a man’s down.  Go on, Curley—­lead!”

“Do you agree?” asked Crothers.

“Suttainly!” The black man seemed disposed to agree to anything so long as he could get what he was after.

“Then here goes!” said Crothers; and he stepped in and led for the honor of the British Navy.

Oh!  It was a fight!  Crothers knew what he was up against the instant that his left fist slid along an ebony forearm and his nose collided with what seemed like an iron club.  Steamship pilot this man might not be, but fighting man he very surely was.  He hit straight and guarded high.  He was no untutored savage.  He had the hardest to acquire of all the Christian arts at his fingers’ (or rather his fists’) ends, and the heavyweight champion of Gosport took a double reef in his fighting tactics while he sparred for time in which to recover from the shock of that first blow.  The claret was streaming down his face and he was dizzy.

“Oh, wade into him, mate!” urged Joe.

It is always easier to see what should be done than to do it.  The sand was not slipping and giving under Joe Byng’s feet, nor were his fists and wrists aching from contact with hard ebony.  To him the thing seemed easy, and he was as anxious to get into the fight himself as was the terrier that strained at his chain.  But Crothers, who had won a hundred fights at least in cleaner climes, fought canny and tried to make the black man tire himself with wasted effort.

And the Arabs sat in silence, like a row of vultures waiting for the end.  Even the little children held their clamor and subsided into motionless calm.  There was not a movement along the roofs or the wall, or in the rings of those who squatted.  Arabia was spellbound, watching something she had never seen before and trying to puzzle out the wherefore of it.  There were knives and guns available, yet these men fought without weapons.  The white contender had a friend, but the friend did not join in.  Why?  Had Allah struck all three men mad?  They sat still to see the end, having no doubt but that it would prove to be a judgment.