Champ of the Forecastle by Robert E. Howard (miss read books TXT) 📕

Sven dropped into the deep, defensive crouch I’d taught him, and I seen Olaf was puzzled. He hisself fought in the straight-up English sparring position and this was the first time he’d ever met a man who fought American style, I could see. With Sven’s crouch protecting his body and his big right arm curved around his jaw, all Olaf couldst see to hit was his eyes glaring over the arm.

He battered away futilely at Sven’s hard head, doing no damage whatever, and then Sven waded in and drove his ponderous left to the wrist in Olaf’s midriff. Olaf gasped, went white, swayed and shook like a leaf. He sure couldn’t take it there and I yelled for Sven to hit him again in the same place, but the big dumb-bell tried a heavy swing for the jaw, half straightening out of his crouch as he swung and Olaf ducked and staggered him with a sizzling right to the ear. Sven immediately went back into his shell and planted another battering-ram left under Olaf’s heart.

Olaf broke ground gasping and his knees trembling, but Sven kept right on top of him in his plodding sort of way. Olaf jarred him with a dying-effort swing to the jaw, but them months of punching hadst toughened Sven and the big fellow shook his head and leaned on a right to the ribs.

That finished Olaf; his knees give way and he started falling, grabbing feebly at Sven as he done so. But Sven, with one of the few laughs I ever heard him give, pushed him away and crashed a tremendous right-hander to his jaw. Olaf straightened out on the board-walk and he didn’t even quiver.

A LOW RUMBLE of fury warned us and we turned to see Olaf’s amazed but wrathful cronies surging towards the victor. But me and Bill and Mushy and Mike kind of drifted in between and at the sight of three hard-eyed American seamen and a harder-eyed Irish bulldog, they stopped short and signified their intention of merely taking Olaf into the Tavern and bringing him to.

At this Sven, grinning placidly and turning to Segrida with open arms, got the shock of his life. Instead of falling on to his manly bosom, Segrida, who hadst stood there like she was froze, woke up all at once and bust into a perfect torrent of speech. I would of give a lot to understand it. Sven stood gaping with his mouth wide open and even the rescue party which had picked up Olaf, stood listening. Then with one grand burst of oratory, she handed Sven a full-armed, open-handed slap that cracked like a bull-whip, and busting into tears, she run forward to help with Olaf. They vanished inside the Tavern.

“What’d she say? What’s the idee?” I asked, burnt up with curiosity.

“She say she bane through with me,” Sven answered dazedly. “She say Aye bane a brute. She say she ain’t bane want to see me no more.”

“Well, keel-haul me,” said I profanely. “Can ya beat that? First she wouldn’t choose Sven because he got licked by Olaf all the time; now she won’t have him because he licked Olaf. Women are all crazy.”

“Never mind, old timer,” said Bill, slapping the dejected Sven on the back. “Anyway, you licked Olaf to a fare-you-well. Come along, and we’ll buy you a drink.”

But Sven just shook his head sullen-like and moped off by hisself; so after arguing with him unsuccessfully, me and Bill and Mushy betook ourselves to a place where we couldst get some real whiskey and not the stuff they make in them Scandinavian countries. The barkeep kicked at first because I give my white bulldog, Mike, a pan-full of beer on the floor, but we overcome that objection and fell to talking about Sven.

“I don’t savvy dames,” I said. “If she gives Sven the bounce for beatin’ up Olaf, whyn’t she give Olaf the bounce long ago for beatin’ up Sven so much?”

“It’s Olaf she really loves,” said Mushy.

“Maybe,” said Bill. “And maybe he’s just persistent. But women is kind-hearted. They pities a poor boob which has just got punched in the nose, and as long as Sven was gettin’ licked all the time, he got all her pity. But now her pity and affections is transferred to Olaf, naturally.”

Well, we didn’t see no more of Sven till kind of late that night, when in come one of our square-head ship-mates named Fritz to the bar where me and Bill and Mushy was, and said he: “Steve, Sven he say maybeso you bane come down to a place on Hjolmer Street; he bane got something to show you.”

“Now what could that Swede want now?” said Bill testily, but I said, “Oh well, we got nothin’ else to do.” So we went to Hjolmer Street, a kind of narrow street just out of the waterfront section. It wasn’t no particularly genteel place—kind of dirty and dingy for a Swedish street, with little crumby shops along the way, all closed up and deserted that time of night. The square-head, Fritz, led us to a place which was lighted up, though the shutters was closed. He knocked on the door and a short fat Swede opened it and closed it behind us.

To my surprise I seen the place was a kind of third-rate gymnasium. They was a decrepit punching bag, a horizontal bar and a lot of bar-bells, dumb-bells, kettle bells—in fact, all the lifting weights you couldst imagine. They was also a rastling mat and, in the middle of the floor, a canvas covered space about the size of a small ring. And in the middle of this stood Sven, in fighting togs and with his hands taped.

“Who you goin’ to fight, Sven?” I asked curiously.

He scowled slightly, flexed his mighty arms kind of embarrassed-like, swelled out his barrel chest and said: “You!”

You could of bowled me over with a jib boom.

“Me?” I said in amazement. “What kind of joke is this?”

“It bane no yoke,” he answered stolidly. “Mine friend Knut bane own diss gym and teach rastlin’ and weight liftin’. He bane let us fight here.”

Knut, a stocky Swede with the massive arms and pot belly of a retired weight lifter, give me a kind of apologetic look, but I glared at him.

“But what you want to fight me for?” I snarled in perplexity. “Ain’t I taught you all you know? Didn’t I teach you to lick Olaf? You ungrateful—”

“Aye ain’t got no grudge for you, Steve,” the big cheese answered placidly. “But Aye tank Aye like be champion of dass Sea Girl. Aye got to lick you to be it, ain’t it? Sure!”

Bill and Mushy was looking at me expectantly, but I was all at sea. After you’ve worked six months teaching a man your trade and built him up and made something outa him, you don’t want to undo it all by rocking him to sleep.

“Why’re you so set on bein’ champ of the Sea Girl?” I asked irritably.

“Well,” said the overgrown heathen, “Aye tank Aye lick you and then Aye can lick Olaf, and Segrida she like me. But Aye lick Olaf, and Segrida she give me dass gate. Dass bane your fault, for teach me to lick Olaf. But Aye ain’t blame you. Aye like you fine, Steve, but now Aye tank Aye be champ of dass Sea Girl. Aye ain’t got no girl no more, so Aye got to be something. Aye lick Olaf so Aye can lick you. Aye lick you and be champ and we be good friends, ya?”

“But I don’t want to fight you, you big mutton-head!” I snarled in wrathful perplexity.

“Then Aye fight you on the street or the fo’c’s’le or wherever Aye meet you,” he said cheerfully.

At that my small stock of temper was plumb exhausted. With a blood thirsty howl I ripped off my shirt. “Bring on the gloves, you square-headed ape!” I roared. “If I got to batter some sense into your solid ivory skull I might as well start now!”

A FEW MINUTES later I was clad in a dingy pair of trunks which Knut dragged out of somewhere for me, and we was donning the gloves a set lighter than the standard weight, which Knut hadst probably got as a present from John L. Sullivan or somebody.

We agreed on Bill as referee, but Sven being afraid of Mike, made me agree to have Mushy hold him, though I assured him Mike wouldn’t interfere in a glove fight. They was no ropes around the canvas space, no stools nor gong. However, as it happened, they wasn’t needed.

As we advanced toward each other I realized more’n ever how much of a man Sven was. Six feet four—245 pounds—all bone and muscle. He towered over me like a giant, and I musta looked kinda small beside him, though I’m six feet tall and weigh 190 pounds. Under his white skin the great muscles rolled and billowed like flexible iron, and his chest looked more like a gorilla’s than a human’s.

But size ain’t everything. Old Fitz used to flatten men which outweighed him over a hundred pounds, and lookit what Dempsey and Sharkey used to do to such like giants—and I’m as tough as Sharkey and can hit as hard as either of them other palookas, even if I ain’t quite as accurate or scientific.

No, I hadst no worries about Sven, but I’d got over being mad at him and I seen his point of view. Sven wasn’t sore at me, nor nothing. He just wanted to be champ of his ship, which was a natural wish. Since his girl give him the air, he wanted to more’n ever to kind of soothe his wounded vanity, as they say.

No, I cooled down and kind of sympathized with Sven’s point of view which is a bad state of mind to enter into any kind of a scrap. They ain’t nothing more helpful than a good righteous anger and a feeling like the other bird is a complete rascal and absolutely in the wrong.

As we come together, Sven said: “No rounds, Steve; we fight to dass finish, yes?”

“All right,” I said with very little enthusiasm. “But, Sven, for the last time—have you just got to fight me?”

His reply was a left which he shot for my jaw so sudden like I just barely managed to slip it. I come back with a slashing right which he blocked, clumsy but effective. He then dropped into the deep crouch I’d taught him and rammed his left for my wind. But I knowed the counter to that, having seen pictures of the second Fitzsimmons-Jeffries riot. I stepped around and inside his ramming left, slapping a left uppercut inside the crook of his right arm, to his jaw, cracking his teeth together and rocking his head up and back for a right hook which I opened a gash on his temple with.

He give a deafening roar and immediately abandoned his defensive posture and come for me like a mad bull. I figured, here’s where I end this scrap quick, like always. But in half a second I seen my error.

Sven didn’t rush wide open, flailing wild, like he used to. He come plunging in, bunched in a compact bulk of iron muscles and fighting fury; he hooked and hit straight, and he kept his chin clamped down on his hairy chest and his shoulders hunched to guard it, half crouching to protect his body. Even the rudiments of boxing science he’d learned, coupled with his enormous size and strength made him plenty formidable to any