Shortly after noon of that same day a slim, bright-eyed man in a huge beaver overcoat drove up to the Lawson cabin. Johnny and Lawrence, who were about to go back to their wood cutting, stared at him.
“Hello, boys,” was his surprising greeting. “I hear you bring ’em back alive.”
“Why, yes, we—Sometimes we do,” Johnny replied in confusion.
“Blackie Dawson told me about you.”
“Oh, Blackie.” Johnny’s face brightened.
“I am in the animal business,” the man explained, alighting from his hired sled and allowing Lawrence to lead his horse away. “I thought you boys might help me a little.”
“Help you? Oh, sure!” Things were looking better and better. “Here’s where we get a start,” Johnny was thinking.
“What have you?” the man asked.
“Well, er—mister—”
“They call me Professor Ormsby,” said the stranger. “You may call me what you please.”
“Well, then, Professor,” Johnny went on, “we have a silver fox, a perfectly keen fox.”
“Caught in a trap, I suppose?”
“No. By hand.”
“By hand!” The Professor stared. “How do you do it?”
Johnny told him in as few words as possible and with no dramatics at all, just how it was done.
“Oh, I say!” the Professor exclaimed. “That’s great! You took a chance with that fox. But, let me see—No-o, I can’t use a silver fox. How about beavers?”
“We haven’t taken any beaver. We—well, we were afraid it might be against the law even to catch them alive.”
“I have a government permit,” said the Professor. “But if you haven’t any beaver—”
“Catching beaver would be easy. We have a grand colony not three miles away,” Lawrence put in. “We might—”
“How about mink?” Johnny asked. “We have some fine ones. Or snow-shoe rabbits?”
“I suggest that you eat the rabbits,” the Professor laughed. “I’ll have a look at your mink. But beaver! There’s your main chance. Can’t you get me some? Big ones, the bigger the better.
“You see,” he smiled, “we think we’re really doing good through this work. In the big cities, hot in summer and cold in winter and crowded always, there are hundreds of thousands of children who would never know what a woodchuck, a monkey, a beaver or a bear looked like if they didn’t see them in a zoo. Brings real joy to them, I’m sure. Many’s the fellow who dates his first real interest in the wide out-of-doors to his visit at the zoo.”
“Yes, I—” Johnny had scarcely heard him. “Could we do it?” he was asking himself. He was thinking of beaver. “Why not? Thousands and thousands of city children.” His head was in a whirl.
“I think,” he tried to make his voice seem very cheerful, “I think we can supply the beaver. Can’t we, Lawrence?”
“What? Yes. Oh, yes,” Lawrence replied.
“One of them must be a big one, a real boss of the village,” warned the Professor.
“We’ve got him,” Johnny laughed uncertainly. “Napoleon himself.”
“Yes. Oh, yes. We’ve got him, all right,” Lawrence did not laugh.
Strangely enough, as a short time later the boys went away on one more “Bring ’em back alive hunt” there was no spring in their step. Their faces were sober. If they succeeded this one more time, the coveted tractor would be within their grasp, and yet they appeared anything but happy.
“Might even get the Titan,” Lawrence tried to tell himself. This boy loved fine machinery and that Titan tractor was a beauty. It had power, plenty of it. With it they could not only pull stumps and plow fields for themselves, but do work for other settlers on shares and, in quiet times, they could work on the road. “Four live beavers,” he thought. “That’s all it takes.” Yes, that was all it took, and yet—
Up a small stream that flows into the Matanuska River early in the year the boys had discovered a beaver colony. Many an hour they had spent watching these busy beavers. Never in all their lives had they seen such feats of engineering done by creatures of the wild.
There were at least sixty beavers in the group. One big fellow, weighing sixty pounds or more, was the leader. He was the boss contractor. And such a boss as he was!
“Napoleon,” they had named him. He stood for hours, as the great little general is pictured, straight, stiff and soldier-like. To him came the others. Were there trees to be felled? Two lieutenants came marching soberly up to him. They talked earnestly, nodding their heads, like real people, then off they rushed to start a dozen beavers doing the work.
It was so in everything. Most interesting of all had been the building of the big dam. This work, the boys understood, must be rushed. Winter would come. Ice would freeze two feet thick. The level of the stream must be raised to six feet so the beaver tribe could use the water beneath as a highway all winter long. The water must be dammed up.
This dam building, done under the wise direction of old Napoleon, had progressed rapidly for a time, then a sudden freshet of water loosened some of the beams and the whole affair threatened to go down stream.
“What’ll they do now?” Lawrence had asked.
“Wait and see,” was Johnny’s answer.
Old Napoleon sent his men, like sub-engineers, all over the dam, making a study of conditions. Then, apparently abandoning all this work, he ordered a new dam built a hundred feet farther down stream.
But did he truly abandon his first work? Not a bit of it. He and his crew built just enough of a dam below to raise the water and relieve the pressure from the original dam. Then, with an air of professional pride, Napoleon returned to his old post and the work was well completed before frost.
“He,” Johnny thought to himself, “is the friend we mean to capture and sell into slavery, Old Napoleon.” Little wonder that his heart was heavy. “Old Napoleon,” he whispered once again.
But what was this? As they neared the beaver colony where they were sure to find Napoleon out sunning himself, they caught sight of some creature skulking through the brush.
“It’s a wolf,” Johnny whispered. “Let’s follow him.”
Follow him they did, and to their consternation saw that he was headed for the beaver colony.
“We’d better frighten him away,” Lawrence whispered. “He’ll drive all the beavers beneath the ice. Then we won’t be able to lasso a single one.”
This, Johnny knew, was good advice, but for some reason scarcely known to himself, he said, “Let’s wait.”
When at last they caught sight of the beaver village, they saw old Napoleon standing stiff and straight as ever in his place. He was having a sun bath.
After sneaking along through the brush, the wolf made a dash at the beaver.
“He’ll kill him,” Lawrence whispered.
Did he? Strange to say, as the wolf came near, the beaver did not stir from his place. This appeared to surprise the wolf, who did not at once rush in for the kill. Sneaking up close, he made a dash at the beaver, but stopped just short of his goal. Still the beaver did not move. To the boys this seemed strange. Their respect for the old fellow grew by leaps and bounds. He appeared to be saying, “What’s a wolf that one should fear him?”
“He—he’s great!” Johnny shrilled.
“Magnificent,” Lawrence agreed.
Snarling low, the wolf began dashing and snapping at the beaver. Each snap made him bolder. Now his ugly jaws were three feet from the apparently defenseless hero of wild life, who had decided to give his life for his home and his people. Now he was only two feet away. And now only a foot.
“We—we’d better step in,” came from Lawrence.
“Wait,” Johnny gripped his arm hard. Perhaps he should stop the wolf, but he waited, fascinated.
“Now!” Lawrence caught his breath. The end, he was sure, had come.
And then, of a sudden, things did happen, but not in accord with expectations. Old Napoleon had chisel-shaped teeth that cut wood like a hatchet. Without a sound, as the wolf, having grown bold, snapped in his very face, he shot forward to close those murderous teeth over the wolf’s closed jaws.
“Great Scott!” Johnny muttered.
The struggle that followed was fast and furious. Kicking and scratching, the wolf rolled over and over, but not once did Napoleon’s locked grip loosen. It was only when his opponent, completely exhausted and all but smothered, lay limp at his side, that he at last pried his own jaws apart to climb awkwardly to his place in the sun. Instantly the wolf dragged himself to his feet, to go slinking away into the brush.
For one full minute the boys stood there motionless. When Lawrence spoke his voice was husky. “Johnny, I’ve often suspected old Napoleon of being a tyrant. He’s lazy, too. I’ve never seen him do a lick of work. But he is one swell engineer and a grand boss.”
“What’s more, he’s no coward,” Johnny added.
“Johnny, I can’t do it,” Lawrence dangled his lasso.
“Neither can I,” said Johnny. “Let’s go.”
Turning, they made their way in silence down the narrow stream to its mouth. There they dropped down upon the snow to put on their skates.
“Johnny,” said Lawrence, “we’re a pair of old softies.”
“That’s right,” said Johnny. “But I don’t mind, do you?”
“Not a bit. Let’s go.”
“Get ’em?” the Professor asked as they came stamping into the cabin.
“No—er, well, no we didn’t,” Johnny stammered.
“How come?” the man’s face sobered. “That was your big moment.”
Sensing the tenseness of the situation, Mrs. Lawson said, “The coffee’s hot. I have some spice cookies, just out of the oven. How would you like a bite to eat?”
“That—that would be splendid!” said the Professor.
When, over their cups of coffee, the boys had told the whole story, there was a strange look on the Professor’s face as he said, “Can’t say that I blame you. Under the circumstances I should have done the same thing. We shall be obliged to get our beaver some other way. And as for your tractor—”
“We—we’ll manage,” Lawrence replied slowly. Then, “By the way, Professor. You must know about bears. Are there any light blue bears?”
“Blue bears? Let me think! Oh, certainly! They belong up this way, too. Very rare they are, though.”
“Blue bears!” Lawrence became greatly excited. “Small blue bears, no larger than a good-sized dog, with woolly hair? They—they live on fish?”
“What?” It was the Professor’s turn to become excited. “You haven’t seen one? You—you couldn’t catch one for me, could you?”
“Sure—sure,” Lawrence stammered. “No, I mean we haven’t. That is, we could, I—I’m sure we could.”
“If you were to bring me one of those bears alive and in good condition,” the Professor spoke in a deeply solemn voice, “you might name your own price. Glacier bears, they are called. There is a stuffed specimen in the United States National Museum, but not a single living specimen in captivity anywhere.”
“We—we’ll hunt up Smokey Joe tomorrow,” Johnny said. “He’s seen them. He can tell us where they are. In fact, he told us all about them, only I thought it was all hooey.”
“Smokey Joe? Who is that?” the Professor asked.
“An old prospector,” Johnny explained. “He’s been all over this country.”
“In that case,” said the Professor, “much as I should like a glacier bear, I suggest that you postpone your search until late spring. Those rare creatures inhabit the wildest sort of country, rocks, cliffs and glaciers. They are worse than mountain goats. You would almost certainly perish. And besides, it is fairly certain that they, like most others of their kind, hibernate. And so—”
“So another bubble bursts,” Johnny groaned.
“Don’t be too pessimistic,” the Professor smiled. “I shall hope to hear from you sometime in June or early July. A single specimen will do.
“And, by the way,” he added as he rose, “I’ve decided to offer you a hundred dollars for your silver fox. That may not seem such a good price, but is really above the market.”
“Sold! Sold!” the boys exclaimed in unison. And so it was that the boys collected their first real money. They were, however, still a long way from their goal.
As the winter wore on the cold grew more intense. Ice on the streams was thick. Wild animals appeared to vanish from the scene. Snow covered much of the river surfaces. All these things served to make “bringing them home alive” more difficult.
At last the boys gave up this strange occupation and turned to the task of clearing the ten-acre tract.
“If we can get that tract cleared we’ll plant it in barley, oats and peas. When these are ground together they make excellent chicken feed. We’ll go in for poultry. There’s a steady market for dressed chickens and eggs at Fairbanks,” said Mr. Lawson.
“Yes, if we get that tract cleared,” Lawrence thought, but did not say. No further suggestion that they go into debt for a tractor was made by anyone.
The long Arctic evenings were divided between games and dreaming. The fame of Johnny’s and Joe’s boxing had traveled far. The recreation room at Palmer was given over to this excellent sport two nights a week.
A boxing club was formed. Even Jack Mayhorn dropped his feud with Johnny and joined up. Members of a boxing club at Seward accepted an invitation for a contest. Johnny and Joe won this by a narrow margin.
On the evenings when business or pleasure did not take them to town Johnny and Lawrence might often be found dreaming by their own hearth-fire.
“When the land is cleared and plowed, when the grain is sowed and we’ve earned a breathing spell,” Lawrence would say, “then we’ll hunt up old Smokey Joe and go out for one of those glacier bears.”
“If we can find Smokey Joe,” Johnny would smilingly agree. “And if they don’t need us for service in Bristol Bay.”
“Bristol Bay,” Lawrence would reply doubtfully. “Seems as if I’d rather catch animals alive than go after those Orientals.”
“We’ll take them alive, too,” Johnny chuckled.
Lawrence was not so sure of this. Hour after hour Blackie Dawson, who had discarded his crutches, entertained them with stories of his adventures with the Orientals.
“They want everything for themselves. They spoiled their own fishing by catching the salmon before they were half grown and canning them right on the ships. Now they want to come over here and do the same, right up there in Bristol Bay.
“They catch our fish and can ’em, then they pop into Seattle or San Francisco and say, ‘See all the fine fish we have canned for you. Come and buy them.’
“Think we’ll do that?” he would storm. “Not on your life! We’ll get ’em. You’ll see.
“But the Shadow,” his voice would drop, “that shadow that passes in the fog. How’s a fellow to catch that? Who can tell? But we’ll get it, too,” he would add, striking the table a lusty blow.
In March he received his appointment as Commander of theStormy Petrel.
“A swell boat.” He was proud of her. “Come on down with me and we’ll turn her motors over once or twice just to get the rust out of ’em.”
Johnny and Lawrence accepted his invitation. They did far more than turn the motors over. With Lawrence as engineer and Johnny as first mate, they cruised for three days along the Alaskan shores.
On the third day, “Just to get in practice,” as Blackie put it, they hailed a suspicious-looking craft carrying no flag. When the skipper failed to heed Blackie’s command to head around, they sent a ball from their shiny brass cannon over her bow and she promptly hove to.
She was found to be carrying contraband drugs. “A fair capture in a fair chase,” as Blackie expressed it. “A regular feather in our cap.”
“Well,” said Johnny, “how did you like it?”
“Those are glorious motors,” Lawrence enthused. “How I’d love to be their master. But I hope—” he hesitated. “I rather hope we go after the glacier bears. That’s the surest way to get a tractor. And a tractor’s what we need most.”
“Time and fate will decide,” Johnny said soberly.
“Time and Blackie,” Lawrence added with a laugh.
“And Smokey Joe,” Johnny amended.
Strangely enough it was Fate, in the form of an automobile accident in far away Seattle, that cast the final vote deciding their choice between theStormy Petrelin Bristol Bay and a glacier bear hunt with Smokey Joe.
Spring had come at last. Steadfastly refusing to go in debt, the Dawsons, with Johnny’s help, were attempting to clear their land without the help of a tractor.
At first it was fun. With blasting powder and dynamite they blew the larger stumps into shreds. The boom—boom—boom of blasts might be heard for miles.
There remained thousands of smaller stumps. To force these from the tough sod and heavy black soil with pick, shovel and bar, was back-breaking labor.
“Give me time,” Johnny would groan when morning came. “There’s a place in my back somewhere that bends. I’ll find it. Just give me time.”
Joke as they might, they could not but feel that progress was woefully slow and that seed-time would find them all unprepared.
One bright day an automobile came bumping over the uneven road to pause before their field. Out from it popped an old friend.
“Blackie!” Johnny exclaimed. “I thought you’d be in Bristol Bay by now.”
“I’m on my way,” Blackie puffed. “And so are you.
“Mr. Lawson,” he exclaimed, “I must draft your boys into my service.”
“What about these stumps,” Mr. Lawson straightened his stiff back.
“What’ll it cost to have ’em out with a tractor?” Blackie demanded.
Both Johnny and Lawrence looked at him with gleaming eyes.
“Why do you need my boys?” the man among the stumps demanded.
“Two of the men who were to accompany me have been crippled,” Blackie explained. “They were in an auto accident in Seattle. I had a wire this morning. They were so badly hurt they could not let me know sooner. And tomorrow we were to sail. Already there has been news of trouble in Bristol Bay.
“I tell you, Mr. Lawson,” Blackie was pleading now. “It’s for Alaska and her greatest enterprise I ask it. Yes, and for every humble American who makes a simple meal from a can of salmon. As I see it, it’s your patriotic duty to let them go.”
Then Blackie did a strange thing for him. He quoted poetry—
“‘Not once nor twice in our fair Island’s storyHas the path of duty been the way to glory.’
“‘Not once nor twice in our fair Island’s story
Has the path of duty been the way to glory.’
“Mr. Lawson!” he exploded, “let them go. Here!” he waved a roll of bills. “I’ll pull your stumps. I’ll plow your land and sow your seed. Let them go.”
Who could have refused? Surely not a man with Tom Lawson’s patriotic soul. “Al-all right, boys,” he said huskily. “Go get your clothes. And—and Blackie, I must trust you to bring them safely home.”
“No need to worry,” Blackie reassured him. “We’ll all be back to shoot fire-crackers with you on the Fourth of July. And may your fields be green by then.”
Twenty-four hours later Johnny and Lawrence found themselves standing on the narrow deck of theStormy Petrelwatching a familiar shore-line fade from their sight.
To Johnny this seemed just one more journey into the great unknown. To Lawrence it was something more, his first long trip away from his own family. Strange emotions stirred within him. Questions he could not answer crowded through his mind. How long was this journey to last? What strange, wild adventures would he meet? What would be the outcome? Would they be of some real service?
Through his thoughts ran Blackie’s two lines of verse,
“‘Not once nor twice in our fair Island’s storyHas the path of duty been the way to glory.’”
“‘Not once nor twice in our fair Island’s story
Has the path of duty been the way to glory.’”
What did it mean? He had only a vague notion.
“MacGregor,” he said to the gray-haired engineer who thrust his head up from the engine room, “what do these words mean?” He repeated the lines.
“Well, noo, me lad,” said the friendly old Scotchman, “I’ve never been too good at poetry. But it seems to me it says if ye think first of yer country and her needs, ye’ll be likely to get the things you want most fer yerself; that is, I meant to say, in the end.”
“Thanks.” Once again the boy paced the deck. Was this true? He wanted a tractor, a humble, earth-digging, sod-plowing, stump-pulling tractor. It was a strange thing for a boy to want, he knew. Most boys would have wished for an automobile, but he wanted a tractor. Would he get it?
As they left Seward behind and headed west to follow the Alaskan Peninsula until they could cross over into Bristol Bay, it seemed to him that they were heading directly away from his heart’s desire. The pay they were to receive was small. It would help very little. “And yet,” he thought with a firm resolve to do his best in his strange new position, “Sometimes fate does seem to take a hand in making things come out just right. Here’s hoping.”
TheStormy Petrelwas a sturdy boat with powerful motors. She was small—little larger than a good-sized speed boat. But how she could go!
There was a small after-cabin with six bunks ranged along the sides. Here George, the colored cook, presided over a small stove producing glorious things to eat. The coffee was always hot. And indeed it was needed, for, as a gray fog settled down upon them, the air became bitter cold.
Johnny was to take watch for watch with Blackie as steersman. Lawrence was to exchange watches with MacGregor and preside over the motors. Had this been a week’s cruise simply for pleasure, nothing could have been more delightful. Johnny loved boats. Lawrence listened to the steady roar of his motors and was joyously happy.
And yet, there hung over them a sense of approaching danger.
“Say-ee!” Johnny exclaimed on the third day, after taking their position and studying the chart. “We’re closer to Asia than we are to Seattle.”
“Aye, that we are, me lad,” MacGregor agreed.
“Yes, and that’s why it’s so easy for these Orientals to slip over here and trap our fish,” Blackie exploded.
“And that,” he went on quietly, “is why you settlers in Matanuska Valley are given so much financial aid. Your old Uncle Sam wants you there. He’s going to locate more and more people along these Alaskan shores. You watch and see! Why? To give them homes? Not a bit of it. To have people here to watch those Orientals, that’s why.”
“Well,” said Johnny with a laugh. “Looks like we’d learn a lot of geography and current history on this trip.”
“No doubt about that, me lad,” MacGregor agreed.
They had been on the water for five days when, touching Johnny on the shoulder, Blackie pointed at two spots of white against the sky.
“That’s snow on two mountain peaks,” he explained. “The cannery we’re heading for is built on the banks of a small river close to these mountains. We’ll be there before dark. And after that,” he took a deep breath. “After that our real work begins.”
“A new world,” Johnny murmured dreamily.
“You don’t know half of it,” said Blackie. And Blackie was right.
Next morning Johnny and Blackie Dawson sat on the deck of theStormy Petrel. A wild nor’wester was whipping up the ocean spray. Even on the river well back from the narrow bay, little whitecaps came racing in.
“No day for going out!” Blackie grumbled. “Pile up on the rocks, that’s what we’d do.”
“Yes,” Johnny agreed. Fact is, he at that moment was not thinking of the sea, but of the quiet Matanuska valley, of the snug home he and his people had built there. He wondered in a vague sort of way how far this, his latest venture, would lead him from that home. He was thinking not so much for himself as for his cousin Lawrence.
Strange as it might seem, the welcome given them by the people of the cannery had not come up to their expectations. Men had stared at them, had mumbled something under their breath, then gone about their work.
Work there was to be done, too. There was a pleasant hum of expectancy about the place. Every motor, machine and conveyor in the place was being given the once-over. Power-boat motors thundered as they went through their testing. Johnny felt a desire to become a part of it all. And yet—
“Fool sort of thing this rushing off after adventure,” he told himself. But, had love of adventure alone brought them this far, hundreds of miles from his quiet valley? Love of home was one thing, love of one’s country another. You didn’t—
His thoughts broke off short. There had come the sound of a loud voice. TheStormy Petrelwas anchored on a narrow dock that ran along the side of a long, low building, the cannery. A window was open. The speaker was near. Johnny caught every word. As he listened his ears burned. But what could he do? He was on his own boat. People who do not mean to be heard too far must speak softly.
Perhaps the man meant to be heard. There was more than a suggestion of anger and threat in his voice as he said, “Fine fix we’re in! Huh! Here we are part of the biggest industry in Alaska. Fifteen million dollars a year. The Orientals start cuttin’ in on us. We call for help, for protection. And what do we get? A lousy tub no bigger than a gill-net boat. And how’s she manned, I ask you?”
A second voice rumbled words that could not be understood.
“She’s manned by a crippled young skipper,” the first speaker growled. “An old Scotch engineer and two kids. Protection! Bah!” There came a grunt of disgust. “We’ll have to take things into our own hands.”
At that a door slammed and they heard no more.
“Well?” Blackie tried to scare up a grin. It was not a huge success. “Kids,” he said.
“We’re not quite that,” Johnny said quietly. “Wearepinch hitters.”
“Sure you are,” Blackie agreed. “But I wouldn’t trade you for half the so-called men in the regular service.
“Say, Johnny!” His voice dropped. “Know who that was talking?”
“No-o.”
“It was Red McGee. He is the union agent that looks after the interests of these men working in the canneries. They say he’s a good man and a fighter, but narrow. A—a fighter. Hm’m—” Blackie seemed to play with the words.
“Johnny,” his whisper sounded like an exploding steam valve. “Youliketo box, don’t you?”
“Nothing I like better,” Johnny grinned. “Started when I was six and never stopped.”
“Red McGee’s a boxer,” Blackie said. “Off times like this I’m told these men up here go in for boxing bouts. Nothing savage, you understand, just a few friendly rounds. And Red’s never been beaten by any of them.”
“And I suppose you expect me to trim him, at least to try it?” Johnny’s face was a study.
“No-o, not just that, only a few friendly rounds. I’d like you to represent theStormy Petrel.”
“I think I get you,” Johnny’s lips moved in a quiet smile. “You want this crowd to know that I’m not a child.”
“Johnny,” Blackie’s tone was almost solemn, “it’s important. Mighty important! If this fishing mob gets started and if they find a ship out there in Bristol Bay catching fish contrary to law, there’s going to be trouble. More trouble than all our diplomats can clear up in a year.
“There’s no getting ’round it, this business has been slighted. But this much stands out like your nose—we’ve got to do what we can. And we can’t do much if these Alaskans sneer at us.
“So-o, son,” he drawled, “if they give you a chance tonight you step in. And if a chance doesn’t open up, I’ll open one.
“Come on,” he sprang to his feet. “It’s time for chow.”
Passionately fond of boxing as Johnny surely was, he found himself dreading the encounter Blackie had proposed for that night. Why? He could not have told.
A strange audience awaited him in the long, low-ceilinged room where, on working days cases of salmon were stored for shipping. Seated on empty packing boxes, the men formed a hollow circle. This circle was to be the ring for the evening’s entertainment.
“They’re all here,” Blackie grinned. “A dozen nationalities: Italians, Finlanders, Swedes, down-east Yankees, an Eskimo or two and what have you.
“One thing they’ve got in common,” his voice rang true, “they’re all Alaskans at heart. Hard fighters, straight shooters, they look you square in the eye and treat you fair. But when anyone tries any dirty, underhanded work, you’ll see sparks fly.”
“Well,” Johnny smiled. “Whatever else happens, there will be no crooked work tonight. I don’t fight that way.”
“Don’t I know it?” Blackie agreed.
“Well, now, here we are,” he chuckled a moment later. “Reserved seats. Box seats, mind you. Who could ask for more?”
As Johnny sat, quite silent in his place, watching one short three-round match after another being fought in a good-natured rough-and-tumble fashion between boatmen, cannery workers, carpenters, engineer and blacksmith, he became more and more conscious of one fact—the crowd was holding back its enthusiasm.
“It’s like the preliminary bouts in Madison Square Gardens,” he said to Blackie at last. “They seem to be waiting for the one big fight. What’s coming?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“No-o, I—”
“It’s you and Red McGee. They’re waiting for that.”
“What?” Johnny half rose to his feet.
“Keep your seat.” Blackie pulled him down. “Ever hear of the grapevine telegraph?”
“Yes, in—in a sort of way.”
“It’s the mysterious manner in which news travels up here. These fellows know about you. The minute I gave them your name they busted out, ‘The kid that packs a wallop?’”
“And you—”
“I said, ‘Sure! None other. But does Red McGee know it?’
“They said, ‘Guess he doesn’t. He’s been in Seattle, just come up.’
“Then I said, ‘Mum’s the word. We’ll just ask him to give Johnny a few pointers in boxing.’”
“And they agreed?” Johnny seemed ready to bolt from the room.
“Sure. Why not?” Blackie grinned. “It’s the grandest way to get in with all of ’em. They like a good joke. So does Red McGee.”
“Even if it’s on him?”
“Even if it’s on him. Absolutely.”
“Then he’s a real sport,” Johnny settled back in his place. “It will be a real joy to box him a few rounds.”
“Okie doke,” Blackie seemed relieved. “But, Johnny,” he added, “pull your punches. Murder isn’t legal in Alaska, not south of the Arctic Circle.”
“I only hope Red McGee remembers that,” was Johnny’s solemn reply.
When by popular request, emphasized by loud shouts, Red McGee was called upon to put on the gloves, he stepped forward smiling. Johnny slid to the very edge of his box for a good look. This was the first time he had seen the man. He was a little startled.
“So that’s what I’m going up against?” he murmured low.
Six feet of man, broad shoulders, a shock of red hair that stood straight up, a square jaw and glittering eyes, this was Red McGee.
And was he popular? The hoarse shouts of approval that made the rough rafters ring as he stepped out on the floor left no room for doubt.
Red was to box three rounds with a man named Tomingo, a dark-faced foreigner who piloted a gill-net boat. Johnny was thankful for this brief reprieve before he too should step into the ring.
That Red McGee was no mean boxer he learned at once. He had a head on his shoulders and a remarkable eye.
“He seems to anticipate every move this Tomingo makes,” Johnny groaned in a whisper.
“They have boxed together before,” was Blackie’s answer. “Perhaps many times. When you play a game with a man many times, just any game, you come to know his tricks. But you, Johnny, he doesn’t know you. It’s an advantage.
“But, Johnny,” he cautioned after a moment’s silence, “don’t let him get to you. Look at those arms! If he hits you just once, a good square one, you’re sunk.
“And, boy,” his voice dropped, “this is a big spot. It’s important, mighty important. These fellows must respect us, have faith in theStormy Petreland her crew. If they don’t, they’ll go storming out there six hundred strong, looking for trouble. And if they find it! Oh, man! They might start a war.”
“There!” Johnny breathed. “There’s the bell. That match is over. And Red McGee is just nicely warmed up.”
The tall, lanky boatman who acted as referee shuffled off the floor.
“Who’s next?” Red McGee invited with a broad smile.
It was evident at once that few of the men cared to take him on. Tomingo was wearing a flaming patch where Red’s glove had raked his chin.
“Red,” one of his own men volunteered, “there’s one of them kids from theStormy Petrelwho’d like to learn a little about boxing. Would y’ mind a teachin’ him?”
“One of those boys?” Red looked squarely at Johnny. Johnny flinched. Did Red know? “Oh, sure!” Red’s lips spread in a broad smile. “I like boys, always have. Sure I’ll show him.
“Look, Tom,” he turned to the referee. “Help the boy on with his gloves. Be sure he gets ’em on the right hands. It’s awkward boxing if you don’t.” He let out a low chuckle.
Once again Johnny flinched. What did Red know? Probably nothing. This was just his way of poking fun at theStormy Petrel’screw. This made Johnny a little angry, but not too much.
“Show ’em, Johnny,” Blackie hissed in his ear. Next Johnny found himself shaking the great paw of Red McGee. And so the fight began.
Nothing had been said about the number of rounds, nor their length. Johnny was a little taken back when the referee settled himself on a box in a corner.
“But then,” it came to him with a sudden shock, “I’m supposed to be a learner. When you’re taking lessons there are no rounds. Well, I’ll be a learner, for a while.”
He carried out his plan to the letter, almost. After giving him a few words of instruction, Red invited him to “Sail right in. Hit me if you can.”
The boy did not exactly “sail in.” Instead, he danced about the big man in an awkward but tantalizing fashion. There is nothing more irritating than a fly buzzing around one’s head. Johnny was, for the moment, Red McGee’s fly. He was here, there and everywhere. At times he appeared to leave himself wide open to one of Red’s sledge-hammer blows, but none of these really connected.
All the time Johnny was thinking, “How long will he stand this? How long? How—”
The answer came sooner than he expected. His arms were all but at his side, he was looking Red squarely in the eyes when he saw those eyes change. It was like the change of a traffic light from green to red. Of a sudden, a huge gloved paw came squarely at the side of his head.
No one will ever know what that blow might have done had it arrived at its proposed destination. It did not arrive. Johnny’s head was not there. Instead, it was Red who, to his vast surprise, received the lightest of taps on the tip of his chin.
The crowd saw and roared. There were men, plenty of them, who knew that, had Johnny not pulled that punch, Red would have hit the floor.
Did Red know? For the life of him Johnny could not tell. One thing he did know, this was no longer a boxing lesson, nor was it to be a sparring match. It was instead to resemble an old-fashioned fight with no gong, no referee and no time out. Red McGee was aroused. There could be no doubt about that.
Johnny kept his opponent going about the ring in a whirl. Twice he stopped and all but fell into Red’s waiting fists. Twice he heard the whistle of a glove as it brushed his ear.
Once, when he was in Blackie’s corner, he heard a hoarse whisper, “Steady, there, boy. I can’t afford to lose you.”
Once, in a mad rush, Red McGee tripped, falling to his knees. Backing away into a corner, Johnny gave him time to regain his feet. Gladly would the boy have remained in that corner for the count of a hundred. All too soon he caught Red’s challenge.
“Come out an’ box.”
“Red’s in a tight place,” Blackie said in a low tone to Lawrence. “I’m almost sorry I got him into it. He’s got a bull by the tail and can’t let go. If he quits now he’s afraid he’ll lose the respect of his men. If he goes on, well, anything may happen.”
In the end two things happened. Both were surprises to Johnny.