Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 18, 1925 — page 115: what you’re looking at

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

MODERN CASTAWAYS. ized that this was merely a temporary in- fatuation. This type of woman, he knew, was not fitted for civilization—and Breen would soon tire of her. He was concerned, in a way, for the girl—but mostly for his own future as Dynamite’g manager. “‘ Suppose the big black buck smacks you for the count?” he suggested desperately. -Dynamite guffawed loudly. ‘ Fat chance of that big tar baby smackin’ me for any- thing,’ he sneered. “ Why, Til feint him into a knot, bang him around for a couple of frames, an’ then push him over. An’ when I push ’em over they lay there.” So here they were—Dynamite Breen in one corner of the ring, Weequa in another— waiting for the gong to start the fireworks. Moyo, the fickle cause of the row, occupied a seat of honor near his majesty. She was clad in her Sabbath raiment, consisting mostly of beads, and it was plain that she favored the white warrior. Her devoted, fawnlike eyes never left his face as he grinned and nodded to her and exchanged banter with the English sailors. Lew Ammon, who was adjusting the gen- uine boxing gloves to Weequa’s hamlike hands, couldn’t help feeling a tinge of pity for the girl as he watched her glowing face out of the corners of his eyes. She was due for bitter disappointment if the black man won, and complete disillusion- ment, and an uncertain fate, if her pale war- rior was victorious. The fighters were ready. The gong—in the hands of the first mate of the Victor— clanged noisily, and the men sprang from their corners. They sparred for a moment, the white man grinning confidently, the other scowling viciously. Dynamite landed the first blow—a light swing to his oppo- nent’s neck, and followed it with two swift jabs to the mouth. He danced away, laugh- ing at the big fellow’s clumsy efforts to hit him. The round was all Breen’s. He feinted, upper-cut, jabbed and swung to his heart’s content; darting in and out like a phantom he completely bewildered the black man with his speed and skill. Weequa didn’t land a blow during the entire three minutes. ‘?At’s the cookie, ol’ bean!” applauded an enthusiastic cockney sailor. ‘‘ Hanother 265 bob on the Hamerican in four rounds!” he challenged down the line. “Hill tike it!” came an answering voice. “°F ’ll knock the black un over hall right— but ’e’ll not wear ’im down in four round.” “Better hang onto your jack, Buckie,” Dynamite advised the last speaker from his corner. “I'll give this baby just one an’ a half more frames.” Lew Ammon, who was refereeing the bout, leaned over and spoke to Dynamite’s ear. “ Watch out for that right hand of his,” he advised. “It ’ll be curtains if it ever connects.” “You watch yourself, grandma,” the © other suggested, smacking his gloves to- gether and grinning. ‘“ Don’t let him bite or do any kickin’ with them dogs of his— that’s all you gotta do. J’ll do the rest.” At the clang of the gong for the second round the white man dashed out to make short work of the battle. He fairly rained leather against the big black’s ribs and body, then suddenly shifted his attack to the head. The other reeled and staggered under the assault. He attempted to cover and in a crude way succeeded, but the slash- ing American once more shifted and drove punch after punch with lightning rapidity into the broad, black midriff. So intent was Dynamite in pursuing this onslaught he neglected even rudimentary precautions against a return blow from the grunting, heaving, human punching bag before him. No one among the excited spectators knew exactly how the blow was delivered, or how far it traveled, but suddenly—out of the mélée of thudding gloves—flashed a black streak.. There came a crack which could have been heard on the deck of the Victor a half mile offshore, providing there had been any one there to hear it, and Dy- namite Breen crashed to the floor like a stricken ox. And lay there. IV. Ir was evening. The steamer Victor— San Francisco to Sydney—plowed through placid seas in the mellow light from a tropi- cal moon. Two men occupied chairs on the afterdeck; one wore a broad, white bandage about his head and frowned and scowled, Gomichbooks (E)