Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 18, 1925 — page 114: what you’re looking at

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

264 the line at so bloodthirsty a method and had suggested settling the affair by means of the fascinating new game of boxing. Weequa was decidedly Dynamite Breen’s inferior as a glove artist, but he outweighed the white man at least forty pounds, was twice as mad, and in such state had no fear for the outcome. So the battle was arranged for the fol- lowing morning—and to the victor belonged the spoils. It was to be by rounds to a finish. Mid-afternoon, while Dynamite and his melancholy manager were enjoying their regular siesta, they were aroused by a loud commotion in the street outside their hut. The din increased; countless native feet pat- tered past the open doorway; voices gabbled excitedly in the native tongue; something unusual was happening, for this was the cus- tomary slumber hour in Kiwyourrani. Lew Ammon sat on the edge of his bunk and shivered. Across his brain flashed the thought that Weequa had stirred up a tribal revolt. Suppose the big black buck had decided to settle the fight before it hap- pened by putting his white rival, and per- haps his rival’s white friend, out of the way? Suppose— “‘ Wot’s all th’ row about?” mumbled Dy- namite Breen sleepily. Trembling like a leaf in an autumn wind Ammon struggled to his feet and made a rather uncertain voyage to the door. “ Dy- namite, come outside+quick!” he yelled from the entrance a moment later. The blinding sunlight set the fighter to blinking when he emerged. Lew tugged frantically at his arm, pointed seaward, then went off into a delirious buck and wing dance down the street. A steamer—a bare two miles offshore—was headed directly for the island. Shouting and pounding each other on the backs the two white men joined the surging mob of natives and raced down the beach to the water’s edge. From here they watched the boat heave-to and cast anchor a safe distance out. They could hear the davits creak as a small boat was lowered over the side and—after what seemed hours —it beached and the crew began unloading two huge metal drums it carried. / ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. ? “Have you got any smoking tobacco?” Lew Ammon asked the staring mate. “ Or a hunk of good ol’ apple pie in your pocket?” grinned Dynamite Breen. Tit. A DENSE, packed circle of black figures squatted on the beach about the roped arena in which the fight between Dynamite Breen, well-known American middleweight, and Weequa, the Kiwyourranian rib cracker, was to take place. His royal majesty, King Lukino, occupied a ringside seat and beamed amiably up at the waiting fighters, uttering an occasional genial ‘“‘ Hot-dam!” to the joy of officers and crew of the steamer Victor who were grouped expectantly about the ring as guests of the management. The Victor’s skipper, being young, and British, and consequently a bit of a sports- man, had not only decided to stay over to see the battle, but had provided a regulation set of five ounce gloves for the fray. His ship, Sidney, bound from Frisco, had put in at the island to deliver six huge casks of gasoline on order for the Allstar Motion Pic- tures Corporation of America. Apparently this company was not ungrateful for past favors, nor had it forgotten that both the electric light plant and the flivver they had left some months before would continue to require fuel. Ammon had argued half the night with his obstinate friend to no avail. Breen not only insisted upon the fight tak- ing place, but had decided, now that they were going to leave the island, to take the girl with him. ‘“She’s real class, I tell you,” he insisted stubbornly. “She ain’t half as brown as a lot of these here Coney Island beach hounds—an’, say, boy, wait till Mrs. Dyna- mite Breen steps out in some real clothes. Hot-dam! as his nibs says, they'll have to call out th’ reserves to keep back the crowd.” Ammon wept real tears. A wife, brown or white, was, in his estimation, not only a liability, but a disturber and a troublemaker in the life of a fighter—especially a pork and beaner who was still a long way from the real money. Then, too, Ammon real- Gomichbooks Dynamite: (E@)