Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 18, 1925 — page 113: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

MODERN CASTAWAYS. modate the crowd which wanted to attend the bouts, and every smack of a gloved hand against a tense, dusky face or a glistening body brought a scream of joy to the lips of the fortunate spectators. With this for a starter Ammon caused an outdoor ring to be constructed on the sandy beach which extended seaward from the village for a full half mile at low tide, and boxing quickly became the great na- tional pastime. Invariably the glove con- tests were held in the early morning before the sun grew too hot. Gradually, as his duties became more strenuous with the increasing ability of his pupils, Dynamite Breen’s protuberant paunch receded, the flabby bunches of fat - about his neck and arms disappeared and he began to show evidences of his former vim and dash. He rather enjoyed the change, too, after the first few groaning weeks, and Lew Ammon was gleefully con- gratulating himself on the success of his scheme when a new complication arose. One of the native belles, a light brown, fawn-eyed, perfectly formed female, devel- oped a burning heart affection for Dynamite Breen. She took to following him about wherever he went with doglike persistence, and to smiling coyly up into his battered countenance whenever he looked at her; which, of course, he did frequently since even Ammon had to admit that she was by no means hard on the eyes. The affait progressed, as affairs of this sort will, until] Lew Ammon grew worried. He took the fighter to task about it one evening. “ Wot are you crabbin’ about—want th’ jane yourself?” Dynamite retorted hotly. “No,” snapped Ammon, “ but I don’t like to see you making a fool of yourself over her.” “ Aw, forget it, ol’ sour grapes!” the other advised. “ She’s some little queen, she is; an’ I’m learnin’ her to speak English. You oughta hear her call me daddy. I'll bet she’d knock them Fifth Avenue frails for a row if she had th’ right kinda rags.” Lew ceased to complain for the time being, but matters took a more serious turn when both he and Dynamite received a sum- mons from the king a few days later. 263 His rotund majesty, the elderly, wizened court interpreter and a huge buck, one of the most promising among the local heavy- weight boxers, awaited them at the royal palace. “ Hot-dam!” said the king genially, as they entered. Both bowed grave acknowledgment of the royal greeting. They also nodded to the in- terpreter and waved an airy salute at their burly pupil, but the latter stood rigid, arms folded upon his broad, black chest and his beady eyes trained malevolently upon Dy- namite Breen’s face. The little interpreter wasted no time in preliminaries. “ Weequa,” he announced, pointing to- ward the scowling native, “ fight—um— scar-face,” jerking a black thumb in Dyna- mite’s direction. “‘ No—fight—spear—king —no—let—do. Fight um—white man way ugh!” The narrator illustrated with a series of pugilistic gestures. ‘‘ Moyo—to—him— ah—arr—subina”’—he groped desperately for an English word—‘“ to him lick.” He concluded triumphantly. “I make him, Lew,” Dynamite spoke up with a surprising burst of intelligence. “The big dinge here is the gal Moyo’s ex- sweety. I used to see ’em together a lot before we got clubby. He wants to fight me for the frail. Boy—he’s steppin’ right into my kitchen! I'll knock that flat-nosed map of his—” “But you don’t want the girl,’”’ Ammon protested vehemently. ‘“ Not bad enough, I mean, to start a row over her. You can’t tell about these here natives—why, the whole gang may—” “ Th’ hell I don’t want that gal!”” Dyna- mite broke in sharply. “I'll take her now if I got to lick the whole blame tribe.” In vain the worried Lew pleaded and argued, in vain he tried to block the ar- rangements for a fistic encounter between the two suitors for the hand of the native girl. The odds were against him. The king was for it, both principals were rarin’ to go, and the interpreter was neutral. Evidently the dusky warrior, Weequa, had begged royal permission to challenge his enemy to the customary duel to the death with spears, but his highness, out of courtesy for the white man, had drawn