Go it, ye chripples; an' may the bist av ye win, sez I!" The next two rounds had somewhat similar results to the first, I keeping up a steady defence and hitting my antagonist pretty nearly in the same place each time, while he gave me a couple of swinging blows, one of which made my mouth bleed, whereat his admirers were in high glee, especially Matthews, his second, for I heard the latter say to him, "Only go on and you'll soon settle him now, Sam!" My friend the boatswain, however, was equally sanguine as to the result, as his encouraging advice to me showed.
"Kape y'r pecker up, Misther Gray-ham.

Sure, he's gittin' winded, as all av thim lane an' lanky chaps allers does arter a bit," said Tim, wiping the blood away that was trickling from my lip with his soft silk handkerchief, which he took off from his own neck for the purpose.
"Begorra, ye've ownly to hammer at his chist an' body, me lad; an' ye'll finish him afore ye can say `Jack Robinson,' an' it's no lie I'm tellin'!" Hitherto I had been merely acting on the defensive, and parrying the blows rained on me by Weeks in his impetuous rushes, more than hitting in return; for only keeping my left fist well out and allowing him to meet it as he so pleased, and which, strange to say, whether he wished it or not, he did so meet.
But now, thinking it time to end matters, the sight of the blood the boatswain had wiped from my face somehow or other bringing out what I suppose was the innate savagery of my nature, I determined to carry the war into the enemy's camp; or, in other words, instead of standing to be struck at, to lead the attack myself.
As Weeks, therefore, advanced with a grin, confidently as before, thinking that I should merely remain on guard, I threw my left straight out, swinging all the weight of my body in the blow; and then, stepping forwards, I gave him the benefit of my right fist, the one following up the other in quick succession, although I acted on Tim's advice, and directed my aim towards his body.
The result of these new tactics of mine altered alike the complexion not only of the fight but that of my antagonist as well; for he went down on the deck with a heavy dull thud, almost all his remaining breath knocked out of him.
"Hurrah, the little un wins!" cheered some of the hands; while others rejoined in opposition, "The lanky one ain't licked yet!" But, to my especial friend the boatswain the end of the contest was now a foregone conclusion and victory assured to me.
"Bedad, me bhoy," he whispered in my ear as he prepared me for what turned out to be the final round of the battle, "that last dhroive av yourn wor loike the kick av a horse, or a pony anyhow! One more brace av them one-twos, Misther Gray-ham, an' he'll be kilt an' done wid!" It was as Rooney said.
Matthews forced Weeks well-nigh against his will to face me once more, when my double hit again floored him incontinently, when the ship, giving a lurch to leeward at the same time, rolled him into the scuppers, as before at our first encounter.
This settled the matter, for, with all the pluck taken out of him and completely cowed, Master Sammy did not offer to rise until Matthews, catching hold of his collar, forcibly dragged him to his feet.
"Three cheers for the little un!" shouted one of the hands, as I stood triumphant on the deck in their midst, the hero of the moment, sailors following the common creed of their fellow men in worshipping success.
"Hooray!" A change came over the scene, however, the next instant.
For, ere the last note of the cheer had ceased ringing out from their lusty throats, Captain Gillespie's long nose came round the corner of the cook's caboose, followed shortly afterwards by the owner of the article--causing Ching Wang, who had been surveying the progress of the fight with much enjoyment, to retreat instantly within his galley, the smile of satisfaction on his yellow oval face and twinkle of his little pig-like eyes being replaced by that innocent look of one conscious of rectitude and in whom there is no guile, affected by most of his celestial countrymen.
"Hullo, bosun!" cried the captain, addressing Tim Rooney, who was helping me to put on my jacket again, and endeavouring, rather unsuccessfully, to conceal all traces of the fray on my person.

"What the dickens does all this mean ?" "Sorry o' me knows, sorr, why them omahdawns is makin' all av that row a-hollerin'," said Tim, scratching his head as he always did when puzzled for the moment for an answer.

"It's ownly Misther Gray-ham, sorr, an' Misther Wakes havin' a little bit of foon togither, an' settlin' their differses in a frindly way, loike, sorr." "Fighting, I suppose,--eh ?" An ominous stillness succeeded this question, the men around following Ching Whang's example and sneaking inside the forecastle and otherwise slily disappearing from view.

Presently, only Tim Rooney and Matthews remained before the captain besides us two, the principals of the fight, and Tom Jerrold, who, blocked between Captain Gillespie and the caboose, could not possibly manage to get away unperceived.
"Yes, there's no doubt you've been fighting," continued the captain, looking from Weeks to me and from me to Weeks, and seeming to take considerably more interest than either of us cared for in our bruised knuckles and battered faces and generally dilapidated appearance; for his long nose turned up scornfully as he sniffed and expanded his nostrils, compressing his thin lips at the end of his inspection with an air of decision.