“Fight mit your bare hands like a man!” the big Swede bellowed scathingly.

“You forget.  I told you all fights on my ship are pulled off under my rules.  I always fight with two-ounce gloves.”

“All righd.  Suit yourself.”  All Hands And Feet felt he could afford to give the enemy a trifle the better of the argument without the slightest prejudice to his own chances for success.

Accordingly, Mr. Murphy skillfully bandaged Matt Peasley’s hands, drew on the gloves and gently shoved his young champion toward the center of the deck.  “Let ’er go!” he announced.

“Come Swede!  Present your credentials!” Matt taunted.  His long left flashed out and cuffed All Hands And Feet on the nose.

It was a mere love-tap!  All Hands And Feet grinned pityingly, and with his left arm guarding his face, rushed.

“Lower deck!” Mr. Murphy warned, and laughed as Matt planted left and right in the midriff and danced away from the Swede’s swinging right.  All Hands And Feet grunted—­a most unwarriorlike grunt—­and dropped both hands—­whereupon a fog suddenly descended upon his vision.  Faintly he made out a blur that was Matt Peasley; bellowing wrathfully he rushed.  Matt gave ground and the Swede’s vision cleared and he paused to consider the situation.

“No rest for the wicked,” Mr. Murphy declared.  “At him, boy, at him!”

All Hands And Feet realized he faced a desperate situation, and as Matt stepped in he ducked and leaped upon his antagonist.

“By yiminy,” he yelled.  “I got you now!” and his great hands closed around Matt Peasley’s neck.

“Lower deck!” Mr. Murphy yelled shrilly, and a volley of short arm blows commenced to rattle on the big Swede’s stomach.  For at least seven seconds Matt worked 1ike a pneumatic riveter; then—­

“Swing your partner for the grand right and left,” Mr. Murphy counseled, and Matt closed with All Hands And Feet, and managed to shake the badly winded champion off.

“All off,” Mr. Murphy declared to the American consul and dropped his marline-spike, as Matt Peasley ripped left and right, right and left into Ole Peterson’s dish face.  “Watch the skipper—­our skipper, I mean.  Regular young human pile-driver.”  He raised his voice and called to Matt Peasley.  “He’s rocking on his legs now, sir; but keep away from those arms.  He’s dangerous and you’re givin’ him fifty pounds the best of it in the weights.  Try the short ribs with your left and feel for his chin with the right, sir.  Very nicely done, sir!  Now—­once more!”

Mr. Murphy nodded politely to the American consul.

“Excuse me,” he said.  “The bigger they are the harder they fall, and the Retriever’s deck ain’t no nice place to bump a man’s head.  I’ll just skip round in back and catch him in my arms.”

Which being done, Mr. Murphy laid All Hands And Feet gently on deck, walked to the scuttle butt, procured a dipperful of water and threw it into the gory, battered face.  Matt Peasley had simply walked round him and, with the advantage of a superior reach, had systematically cut Captain Ole Peterson to strings and ribbons.