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Title: The TNT Punch
Author: Robert E. Howard
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0608831.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: November 2006
Date most recently updated: November 2006

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The TNT Punch
Robert E. Howard

The first thing that happened in Cape Town, my white bulldog Mike
bit a policeman and I had to come across with a fine of ten dollars,
to pay for the cop's britches. That left me busted, not more'n an hour
after the _Sea Girl_ docked.

The next thing who should I come on to but Shifty Kerren, manager
of Kid Delrano, and the crookedest leather-pilot which ever swiped the
gate receipts. I favored this worthy with a hearty scowl, but he had
the everlasting nerve to smile welcomingly and hold out the glad hand.

"Well, well! If it ain't Steve Costigan! Howdy, Steve!" said the
infamous hypocrite. "Glad to see you. Boy, you're lookin' fine! Got
good old Mike with you, I see. Nice dawg."

He leaned over to pat him.

"Grrrrrr!" said good old Mike, fixing for to chaw his hand. I
pushed Mike away with my foot and said to Shifty, I said: "A big nerve
you got, tryin' to fraternize with me, after the way you squawked and
whooped the last time I seen you, and called me a dub and all."

"Now, now, Steve!" said Shifty. "Don't be foolish and go holdin'
no grudge. It's all in the way of business, you know. I allus did like
you, Steve."

"Gaaahh!" I responded ungraciously. I didn't have no wish to
hobnob none with him, though I figgered I was safe enough, being as I
was broke anyway.

I've fought that palooka of his twice. The first time he
outpointed me in a ten-round bout in Seattle, but didn't hurt me none,
him being a classy boxer but kinda shy on the punch.

Next time we met in a Frisco ring, scheduled for fifteen frames.
Kid Delrano give me a proper shellacking for ten rounds, then punched
hisself out in a vain attempt to stop me, and blowed up. I had him on
the canvas in the eleventh and again in the twelfth and with the
fourteenth a minute to go, I rammed a right to the wrist in his solar
plexus that put him down again. He had sense enough left to grab his
groin and writhe around.

And Shifty jumped up and down and yelled: "Foul!" so loud the
referee got scared and rattled and disqualified me. I swear it wasn't
no foul. I landed solid above the belt line. But I officially lost the
decision and it kinda rankled.

SO NOW I GLOWERED at Shifty and said: "What you want of me?"

"Steve," said Shifty, putting his hand on my shoulder in the old
comradely way his kind has when they figger on putting the skids under
you, "I know you got a heart of gold! You wouldn't leave no feller
countryman in the toils, would you? Naw! Of course you wouldn't! Not
good old Steve. Well, listen, me and the Kid is in a jam. We're
broke--and the Kid's in jail.

"We got a raw deal when we come here. These Britishers went and
disqualified the Kid for merely bitin' one of their ham-and-eggers.
The Kid didn't mean nothin' by it. He's just kinda excitable

"Yeah, I know," I growled. "I got a scar on my neck now from the
rat's fangs. He got excitable with me, too."

"Well," said Shifty hurriedly, "they won't let us fight here now,
and we figgered on movin' upcountry into Johannesburg. Young Hilan is
tourin' South Africa and we can get a fight with him there. His
manager--er, I mean a promoter there--sent us tickets, but the Kid's
in jail. They won't let him out unless we pay a fine of six pounds.
That's thirty dollars, you know. And we're broke.

"Steve," went on Shifty, waxing eloquent, "I appeals to your
national pride! Here's the Kid, a American like yourself, pent up in
durance vile, and for no more reason than for just takin' up for his
own country--"

"Huh!" I perked up my ears. "How's that?"

"Well, he blows into a pub where three British sailors makes
slanderous remarks about American ships and seamen. Well, you know the
Kid--just a big, free-hearted, impulsive boy, and terrible proud of
his country, like a man should be. He ain't no sailor, of course, but
them remarks was a insult to his countrymen and he wades in. He gives
them limeys a proper drubbin' but here comes a host of cops which
hauls him before the local magistrate which hands him a fine we can't

"Think, Steve!" orated Shifty. "There's the Kid, with thousands of
admirin' fans back in the States waitin' and watchin' for his
triumphal return to the land of the free and the home of the brave.
And here's him, wastin' his young manhood in a stone dungeon, bein'
fed on bread and water and maybe beat up by the jailers, merely for
standin' up for his own flag and nation. For defendin' the honor of
American sailors, mind you, of which you is one. I'm askin' you,
Steve, be you goin' to stand by and let a feller countryman languish
in the 'thrallin' chains of British tyranny?"

"Not by a long ways!" said I, all my patriotism roused and
roaring. "Let bygones be bygones!" I said.

It's a kind of unwritten law among sailors ashore that they should
stand by their own kind. A kind of waterfront law, I might say.

"I ain't fought limeys all over the world to let an American be
given the works by 'em now," I said. "I ain't got a cent, Shifty, but
I'm goin' to get some dough.

"Meet me at the American Seamen's Bar in three hours. I'll have
the dough for the Kid's fine or I'll know the reason why.

"You understand, I ain't doin' this altogether for the Kid. I
still intends to punch his block off some day. But he's an American
and so am I, and I reckon I ain't so small that I'll let personal
grudges stand in the way of helpin' a countryman in a foreign land."

"Spoken like a man, Steve!" applauded Shifty, and me and Mike
hustled away.

A short, fast walk brung us to a building on the waterfront which
had a sign saying: "The South African Sports Arena." This was all lit
up and yells was coming forth by which I knowed fights was going on

The ticket shark told me the main bout had just begun. I told him
to send me the promoter, "Bulawayo" Hurley, which I'd fought for of
yore, and he told me that Bulawayo was in his office, which was a
small room next to the ticket booth. So I went in and seen Bulawayo
talking to a tall, lean gent the sight of which made my neck hair

"Hey, Bulawayo," said I, ignoring the other mutt and coming direct
to the point, "I want a fight. I want to fight tonight--right now.
Have you got anybody you'll throw in with me, or if not willya let me
get up in your ring and challenge the house for a purse to be made up
by the crowd?"

"By a strange coincidence," said Bulawayo, pulling his big
mustache, "here's Bucko Brent askin' me the same blightin' thing."

Me and Bucko gazed at each other with hearty disapproval. I'd had
dealings with this thug before. In fact, I built a good part of my
reputation as a bucko-breaker on his lanky frame. A bucko, as you
likely know, is a hard-case mate, who punches his crew around. Brent
was all that and more. Ashore he was a prize-fighter, same as me.

Quite a few years ago I was fool enough to ship as A.B. on the
_Elinor,_ which he was mate of then. He's an Australian and the
_Elinor_ was an Australian ship. Australian ships is usually good
crafts to sign up with, but this here _Elinor_ was a exception. Her
cap'n was a relic of the old hellship days, and her mates was natural-
born bullies. Brent especially, as his nickname of "Bucko" shows. But
I was broke and wanted to get to Makassar to meet the _Sea Girl_
there, so I shipped aboard the _Elinor_ at Bristol.

Brent started ragging me before we weighed anchor.

Well, I stood his hazing for a few days and then I got plenty and
we went together. We fought the biggest part of one watch, all over
the ship from the mizzen cross trees to the bowsprit. Yet it wasn't
what I wouldst call a square test of manhood because marlin spikes and
belaying pins was used free and generous on both sides and the entire
tactics smacked of rough house.

In fact, I finally won the fight by throwing him bodily offa the
poop. He hit on his head on the after deck and wasn't much good the
rest of the cruise, what with a broken arm, three cracked ribs and a
busted nose. And the cap'n wouldn't even order me to scrape the anchor
chain less'n he had a gun in each hand, though I wasn't figgering on
socking the old rum-soaked antique.

Well, in Bulawayo's office me and Bucko now set and glared at each
other, and what we was thinking probably wasn't printable.

"Tell you what, boys," said Bulawayo, "I'll let you fight ten
rounds as soon as the main event's over with. I'll put up five pounds
and the winner gets it all."

"Good enough for me," growled Bucko.

"Make it six pounds and it's a go," said I.

"Done!" said Bulawayo, who realized what a break he was getting,
having me fight for him for thirty dollars.

Bucko give me a nasty grin.

"At last, you blasted Yank," said he, "I got you where I want you.
They'll be no poop deck for me to slip and fall off this time. And you
can't hit me with no hand spike."

"A fine bird you are, talkin' about hand spikes," I snarled,
"after tryin' to tear off a section of the main-rail to sock me with."

"Belay!" hastily interrupted Bulawayo. "Preserve your ire for the

"Is they any _Sea Girl_ men out front?" I asked. "I want a handler
to see that none of this thug's henchmen don't dope my water bottle."

"Strangely enough, Steve," said Bulawayo, "I ain't seen a _Sea
Girl_ bloke tonight. But I'll get a handler for you."

WELL, THE MAIN EVENT went the limit. It seemed like it never would
get over with and I cussed to myself at the idea of a couple of dubs
like them was delaying the performance of a man like me. At last,
however, the referee called it a draw and kicked the both of them outa
the ring.

Bulawayo hopped through the ropes and stopped the folks who'd
started to go, by telling them he was offering a free and added
attraction--Sailor Costigan and Bucko Brent in a impromptu grudge
bout. This was good business for Bulawayo. It tickled the crowd who'd
seen both of us fight, though not ag'in each other, of course. They
cheered Bulawayo to the echo and settled back with whoops of delight.

Bulawayo was right--not a _Sea Girl_ man in the house. All drunk
or in jail or something, I suppose. They was quite a number of thugs
there from the _Nagpur_--Brent's present ship--and they all rose as
one and gimme the razz. Sailors is funny. I know that Brent hazed the
liver outa them, yet they was rooting for him like he was their
brother or something.

I made no reply to their jeers, maintaining a dignified and aloof
silence only except to tell them that I was going to tear their pet
mate apart and strew the fragments to the four winds, and also to warn
them not to try no monkey-shines behind my back, otherwise I wouldst
let Mike chaw their legs off. They greeted my brief observations with
loud, raucous bellerings, but looked at Mike with considerable awe.

The referee was an Englishman whose name I forget, but he hadn't
been outa the old country very long, and had evidently got his
experience in the polite athletic clubs of London. He says: "Now
understand this, you blighters, w'en H'I says break, H'I wants no
bally nonsense. Remember as long as H'I'm in 'ere, this is a blinkin'
gentleman's gyme."

But he got in the ring with us, American style.

Bucko is one of these long, rangy, lean fellers, kinda pale and
rawboned. He's got a thin hatchet face and mean light eyes. He's a bad
actor and that ain't no lie. I'm six feet and weigh one ninety. He's a
inch and three-quarters taller'n me, and he weighed then, maybe, a
pound less'n me.

BUCKO COME OUT STABBING with his left, but I was watching his
right. I knowed he packed his T.N.T. there and he was pretty classy
with it.

In about ten seconds he nailed me with that right and I seen
stars. I went back on my heels and he was on top of me in a second,
hammering hard with both hands, wild for a knockout. He battered me
back across the ring. I wasn't really hurt, though he thought I was.
Friends of his which had seen me perform before was yelling for him to
be careful, but he paid no heed.

With my back against the ropes I failed to block his right to the
body and he rocked my head back with a hard left hook.

"You're not so tough, you lousy mick--" he sneered, shooting for
my jaw. _Wham!_ I ripped a slungshot right uppercut up inside his left
and tagged him flush on the button. It lifted him clean offa his feet
and dropped him on the seat of his trunks, where he set looking up at
the referee with a goofy and glassy-eyed stare, whilst his friends
jumped up and down and cussed and howled: "We told you to be careful
with that gorilla, you conceited jassack!"

But Bucko was tough. He kind of assembled hisself and was up at
the count of "Nine," groggy but full of fight and plenty mad. I come
in wide open to finish him, and run square into that deadly right. I
thought for a instant the top of my head was tore off, but rallied and
shook Bucko from stem to stern with a left hook under the heart. He
tin-canned in a hurry, covering his retreat with his sharp-shooting
left. The gong found me vainly follering him around the ring.

The next round started with the fans which was betting on Bucko
urging him to keep away from me and box me. Them that had put money on
me was yelling for him to take a chance and mix it with me.

But he was plenty cagey. He kept his right bent across his
midriff, his chin tucked behind his shoulder and his left out to fend
me off. He landed repeatedly with that left and brung a trickle of
blood from my lips, but I paid no attention. The left ain't made that
can keep me off forever. Toward the end of the round he suddenly let
go with that right again and I took it square in the face to get in a
right to his ribs.

Blood spattered when his right landed. The crowd leaped up,
yelling, not noticing the short-armed smash I ripped in under his
heart. But he noticed it, you bet, and broke ground in a hurry,
gasping, much to the astonishment of the crowd, which yelled for him
to go in and finish the blawsted Yankee.

Crowds don't see much of what's going on in the ring before their
eyes, after all. They see the wild swings and haymakers but they miss
most of the real punishing blows--the short, quick smashes landed in

Well, I went right after Brent, concentrating on his body. He was
too kind of long and rangy to take much there. I hunched my shoulders,
sunk my head on my hairy chest and bulled in, letting him pound my
ears and the top of my head, while I slugged away with both hands for
his heart and belly.

A left hook square under the liver made him gasp and sway like a
mast in a high wind, but he desperately ripped in a right uppercut
that caught me on the chin and kinda dizzied me for a instant. The
gong found us fighting out of a clinch along the ropes.

My handler was highly enthusiastic, having bet a pound on me to
win by a knockout. He nearly flattened a innocent ringsider showing me
how to put over what he called "The Fitzsimmons Smoker." I never
heered of the punch.

Well, Bucko was good and mad and musta decided he couldn't keep me
away anyhow, so he come out of his corner like a bounding kangaroo,
and swarmed all over me before I realized he'd changed his tactics. In
a wild mix-up a fast, clever boxer can make a slugger look bad at his
own game for a few seconds, being as the cleverer man can land quicker
and oftener, but the catch is, he can't keep up the pace. And the
smashes the slugger lands are the ones which really counts.

THE CROWD WENT CLEAN crazy when Bucko tore into me, ripping both
hands to head and body as fast as he couldst heave one after the
other. It looked like I was clean swamped, but them that knowed me
tripled their bets. Brent wasn't hurting me none--cutting me up a
little, but he was hitting too fast to be putting much weight behind
his smacks.

Purty soon I drove a glove through the flurry of his punches. His
grunt was plainly heered all over the house. He shot both hands to my
head and I come back with a looping left to the body which sunk in
nearly up to the wrist.

It was kinda like a bull fighting a tiger, I reckon. He swarmed
all over me, hitting fast as a cat claws, whilst I kept my head down
and gored him in the belly occasionally. Them body punches was rapidly
taking the steam outa him, together with the pace he was setting for
hisself. His punches was getting more like slaps and when I seen his
knees suddenly tremble, I shifted and crashed my right to his jaw with
everything I had behind it. It was a bit high or he'd been out till

Anyway, he done a nose dive and hadn't scarcely quivered at
"Nine," when the gong sounded. Most of the crowd was howling lunatics.
It looked to them like a chance blow, swung by a desperate, losing
man, hadst dropped Bucko just when he was winning in a walk.

But the old-timers knowed better. I couldst see 'em lean back and
wink at each other and nod like they was saying: "See, what did I tell
you, huh?"

Bucko's merry men worked over him and brung him up in time for the
fourth round. In fact, they done a lot of work over him. They
clustered around him till you couldn't see what they was doing.

Well, he come out fairly fresh. He had good recuperating powers.
He come out cautious, with his left hand stuck out. I noticed that
they'd evidently spilt a lot of water on his glove; it was wet.

I glided in fast and he pawed at my face with that left. I didn't
pay no attention to it. Then when it was a inch from my eyes I smelt a
peculiar, pungent kind of smell! I ducked wildly, but not quick
enough. The next instant my eyes felt like somebody'd throwed fire
into 'em. Turpentine! His left glove was soaked with it!

I'd caught at his wrist when I ducked. And now with a roar of
rage, whilst I could still see a little, I grabbed his elbow with the
other hand and, ignoring the smash he gimme on the ear with his right,
I bent his arm back and rubbed his own glove in his own face.

He give a most ear-splitting shriek. The crowd bellered with
bewilderment and astonishment and the referee rushed in to find out
what was happening.

"I say!" he squawked, grabbing hold of us, as we was all tangled
up by then. "Wot's going on 'ere? I say, it's disgryceful--_OW!"_

By some mischance or other, Bucko, thinking it was me, or swinging
blind, hit the referee right smack between the eyes with that
turpentine-soaked glove.

Losing touch with my enemy, I got scared that he'd creep up on me
and sock me from behind. I was clean blind by now and I didn't know
whether he was or not. So I put my head down and started swinging wild
and reckless with both hands, on a chance I'd connect.

Meanwhile, as I heered afterward, Bucko, being as blind as I was,
was doing the same identical thing. And the referee was going around
the ring like a race horse, yelling for the cops, the army, the navy
or what have you!

THE CROWD WAS CLEAN off its nut, having no idee as to what it all

"That blawsted blighter Brent!" howled the cavorting referee in
response to the inquiring screams of the maniacal crowd. "'E threw
vitriol in me blawsted h'eyes!"

"Cheer up, cull!" bawled some thug. "Both of 'em's blind too!"

"'Ow can H'I h'officiate in this condition?" howled the referee,
jumping up and down. "Wot's tyking plyce in the bally ring?"

"Bucko's just flattened one of his handlers which was climbin'
into the ring, with a blind swing!" the crowd whooped hilariously.
"The Sailor's gone into a clinch with a ring post!"

Hearing this, I released what I had thought was Brent, with some
annoyance. Some object bumping into me at this instant, I took it to
be Bucko and knocked it head over heels. The delirious howls of the
multitude informed me of my mistake. Maddened, I plunged forward,
swinging, and felt my left hook around a human neck. As the referee
was on the canvas this must be Bucko, I thought, dragging him toward
me, and he proved it by sinking a glove to the wrist in my belly.

I ignored this discourteous gesture, and, maintaining my grip on
his neck, I hooked over a right with all I had. Having hold of his
neck, I knowed about where his jaw oughta be, and I figgered right. I
knocked Bucko clean outa my grasp and from the noise he made hitting
the canvas I knowed that in the ordinary course of events, he was
through for the night.

I groped into a corner and clawed some of the turpentine outa my
eyes. The referee had staggered up and was yelling: "'Ow in the
blinkin' 'Ades can a man referee in such a mad-'ouse? Wot's 'ere,
wot's 'ere?"

"Bucko's down!" the crowd screamed. "Count him out!"

"W'ere is 'e?" bawled the referee, blundering around the ring.

"Three p'ints off yer port bow!" they yelled and he tacked and
fell over the vaguely writhing figger of Bucko. He scrambled up with a
howl of triumph and begun to count with the most vindictive voice I
ever heered. With each count he'd kick Bucko in the ribs.

"--H'eight! Nine! Ten! H'and you're h'out, you blawsted, blinkin'
blightin', bally h'assassinatin' pirate!" whooped the referee, with
one last tremendjous kick.

I climb over the ropes and my handler showed me which way was my
dressing-room. Ever have turpentine rubbed in your eyes? Jerusha! I
don't know of nothing more painful. You can easy go blind for good.

But after my handler hadst washed my eyes out good, I was all
right. Collecting my earnings from Bulawayo, I set sail for the
American Seamen's Bar, where I was to meet Shifty Kerren and give him
the money to pay Delrano's fine with.

IT WAS QUITE A BIT past the time I'd set to meet Shifty, and he
wasn't nowhere to be seen. I asked the barkeep if he'd been there and
the barkeep, who knowed Shifty, said he'd waited about half an hour
and then hoisted anchor. I ast the barkeep if he knowed where he lived
and he said he did and told me. So I ast him would he keep Mike till I
got back and he said he would. Mike despises Delrano so utterly I was
afraid I couldn't keep him away from the Kid's throat, if we saw him,
and I figgered on going down to the jail with Shifty.

Well, I went to the place the bartender told me and went upstairs
to the room the landlady said Shifty had, and started to knock when I
heard men talking inside. Sounded like the Kid's voice, but I couldn't
tell what he was saying so I knocked and somebody said: "Come in."

I opened the door. Three men was sitting there playing pinochle.
They was Shifty, Bill Slane, the Kid's sparring partner, and the Kid

"Howdy, Steve," said Shifty with a smirk, kinda furtive eyed,
"whatcha doin' away up here?"

"Why," said I, kinda took aback, "I brung the dough for the Kid's
fine, but I see he don't need it, bein' as he's out."

Delrano hadst been craning his neck to see if Mike was with me,
and now he says, with a nasty sneer: "What's the matter with your
face, Costigan? Some street kid poke you on the nose?"

"If you wanta know," I growled, "I got these marks on your
account. Shifty told me you was in stir, and I was broke, so I fought
down at The South African to get fine-money."

At that the Kid and Slane bust out into loud and jeering
laughter--not the kind you like to hear. Shifty joined in, kinda

"Whatcha laughin' at?" I snarled. "Think I'm lyin'?"

"Naw, you ain't lyin'," mocked the Kid. "You ain't got sense
enough to. You're just the kind of a dub that would do somethin' like

"You see, Steve," said Shifty, "the Kid--"

"Aw shut up, Shifty!" snapped Delrano. "Let the big sap know he's
been took for a ride. I'm goin' to tell him what a sucker he's been.
He ain't got his blasted bulldog with him. He can't do nothin' to the
three of us."

DELRANO GOT UP AND stuck his sneering, pasty white face up close
to mine.

"Of all the dumb, soft, boneheaded boobs I ever knew," said he,
and his tone cut like a whip lash, "you're the limit. Get this,
Costigan, I ain't broke and I ain't been in jail! You want to know why
Shifty spilt you that line? Because I bet him ten dollars that much as
you hate me and him, we could hand you a hard luck tale and gyp you
outa your last cent.

"Well, it worked! And to think that you been fightin' for the
dough to give me! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! You big chump! You're a natural born
sucker! You fall for anything anybody tells you. You'll never get
nowheres. Look at me--I wouldn't give a blind man a penny if he was
starvin' and my brother besides. But you--oh, what a sap!

"If Shifty hadn't been so anxious to win that ten bucks that he
wouldn't wait down at the bar, we'd had your dough, too. But this is
good enough. I'm plenty satisfied just to know how hard you fell for
our graft, and to see how you got beat up gettin' money to pay _my_
fine! Ha-ha-ha!"

By this time I was seeing them through a red mist. My huge fists
was clenched till the knuckles was white, and when I spoke it didn't
hardly sound like my voice at all, it was so strangled with rage.

"They's rats in every country," I ground out. "If you'd of picked
my pockets or slugged me for my dough, I coulda understood it. If
you'd worked a cold deck or crooked dice on me, I wouldn'ta kicked.
But you appealed to my better nature, 'stead of my worst.

"You brung up a plea of patriotism and national fellership which
no decent man woulda refused. You appealed to my natural pride of
blood and nationality. It wasn't for you I done it--it wasn't for you
I spilt my blood and risked my eyesight. It was for the principles and
ideals you've mocked and tromped into the muck--the honor of our
country and the fellership of Americans the world over.

"You dirty swine! You ain't fitten to be called Americans. Thank
gosh, for everyone like you, they's ten thousand decent men like me.
And if it's bein' a sucker to help out a countryman when he's in a jam
in a foreign land, then I thanks the Lord I am a sucker. But I ain't
all softness and mush--feel this here for a change!"

And I closed the Kid's eye with a smashing left hander. He give a
howl of surprise and rage and come back with a left to the jaw. But he
didn't have a chance. He'd licked me in the ring, but he couldn't lick
me bare-handed, in a small room where he couldn't keep away from my
hooks, not even with two men to help him. I was blind mad and I just
kind of gored and tossed him like a charging bull.

If he hit at all after that first punch I don't remember it. I
know I crashed him clean across the room with a regular whirlwind of
smashes, and left him sprawled out in the ruins of three or four
chairs with both eyes punched shut and his arm broke. I then turned on
his cohorts and hit Bill Slane on the jaw, knocking him stiff as a
wedge. Shifty broke for the door, but I pounced on him and spilled him
on his neck in a corner with a open-handed slap.

I THEN STALKED FORTH in silent majesty and gained the street. As I
went I was filled with bitterness. Of all the dirty, contemptible
tricks I ever heered of, that took the cake. And I got to thinking
maybe they was right when they said I was a sucker. Looking back, it
seemed to me like I'd fell for every slick trick under the sun. I got
mad. I got mighty mad.

I shook my fist at the world in general, much to the astonishment
and apprehension of the innocent by-passers.

"From now on," I raged, "I'm harder'n the plate on a battleship! I
ain't goin' to fall for _nothin'!_ Nobody's goin' to get a blasted
cent outa me, not for no reason what-the-some-ever--"

At that moment I heered a commotion going on nearby. I looked.
Spite of the fact that it was late, a pretty good-sized crowd hadst
gathered in front of a kinda third-class boarding-house. A mighty
purty blonde-headed girl was standing there, tears running down her
cheeks as she pleaded with a tough-looking old sister who stood with
her hands on her hips, grim and stern.

"Oh, please don't turn me out!" wailed the girl. "I have no place
to go! No job--oh, please. Please!"

I can't stand to hear a hurt animal cry out or a woman beg. I
shouldered through the crowd and said: "What's goin' on here?"

"This hussy owes me ten pounds," snarled the woman. "I got to have
the money or her room. I'm turnin' her out."

"Where's her baggage?" I asked.

"I'm keepin' it for the rent she owes," she snapped. "Any of your

The girl kind of slumped down in the street. I thought if she's
turned out on the street tonight they'll be hauling another carcass
outa the bay tomorrer. I said to the landlady, "Take six pounds and
call it even."

"Ain't you got no more?" said she.

"Naw, I ain't," I said truthfully.

"All right, it's a go," she snarled, and grabbed the dough like a
sea-gull grabs a fish.

"All right," she said very harshly to the girl, "you can stay
another week. Maybe you'll find a job by that time--or some other sap
of a Yank sailor will come along and pay your board."

She went into the house and the crowd give a kind of cheer which
inflated my chest about half a foot. Then the girl come up close to me
and said shyly, "Thank you. I--I--I can't begin to tell you how much I
appreciate what you've done for me."

Then all to a sudden she throwed her arms around my neck and
kissed me and then run up the steps into the boarding-house. The crowd
cheered some more like British crowds does and I felt plenty uplifted
as I swaggered down the street. Things like that, I reflected, is
worthy causes. A worthy cause can have my dough any time, but I reckon
I'm too blame smart to get fooled by no shysters.

I COME INTO THE AMERICAN Seamen's Bar where Mike was getting
anxious about me. He wagged his stump of a tail and grinned all over
his big wide face and I found two American nickels in my pocket which
I didn't know I had. I give one of 'em to the barkeep to buy a pan of
beer for Mike. And whilst he was lapping it, the barkeep, he said: "I
see Boardin'-house Kate is in town."

"Whatcha mean?" I ast him.

"Well," said he, combing his mustache, "Kate's worked her racket
all over Australia and the West Coast of America, but this is the
first time I ever seen her in South Africa. She lets some landlady of
a cheap boardin'-house in on the scheme and this dame pretends to
throw her out. Kate puts up a wail and somebody--usually some free-
hearted sailor about like you--happens along and pays the landlady the
money Kate's supposed to owe for rent so she won't kick the girl out
onto the street. Then they split the dough."

"Uh huh!" said I, grinding my teeth slightly. "Does this here
Boardin'-house Kate happen to be a blonde?"

"Sure thing," said the barkeep. "And purty as hell. What did you

"Nothin'," I said. "Here. Give me a schooner of beer and take this
nickel, quick, before somebody comes along and gets it away from me."


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