A Lively Bit of the Front Part 9

"No; in khaki--an Afrikander artilleryman."

Fortescue whistled softly.

"Sure?" he asked.

"No, I said I wasn't," declared Malcolm. "I only caught sight of him as he pa.s.sed. The blighter looked a bit sheepish, and didn't want to catch my eye."

"Golly!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Selwyn. "That's fishy! We'll keep a look-out for him. Wonder if he'll put in an appearance at the boxing-match?"

"We will, in any case," observed Kennedy. "All our boys will be there to give your Maori chum a buck up. I'll pa.s.s the word to some of the Tommy soldiers. They're good sports, and will shout with the rest of us."

With the laudable intention of keeping the men's minds fully occupied during the hours of leisure, the officers had arranged for the boxing-tournament at an early stage of the voyage. The contests were to take place on the promenade deck, a s.p.a.ce having been roped off and seats provided for the officers. Every other available part of the deck which would command a view of the "ring" was packed. Men were cl.u.s.tered like flies in the boats on the boat deck, others swarmed up the shrouds, to the choleric but ineffectual protests of the s.h.i.+p's officers.

Several pairs of sparring-men having displayed their prowess and received indiscriminate praise and rebuffs from their respective supporters, the event of the evening was announced.

Gunner Jan van Eindhovengen was open to engage upon a ten-round contest with any non-commissioned officer or man amongst the troops on board.

Amidst the vociferous shouts of "Oom Jan" from his compatriots, the Afrikander stepped into the ring. Stripped to the waist, his huge bulk, bull neck, and ma.s.sive limbs showed to their fullest advantage. Across his chest and back the muscles stood out like knots on a gnarled oak. His arms were as thick as the thigh of an ordinary man, while his seconds had considerable difficulty in placing the gloves on his enormous hands. With a supercilious and self-confident smile he folded his arms across his chest and surveyed the dense crowd of spectators.

Having summed up the formidable champion, Malcolm directed his attention towards the group of men from which van Eindhovengen had just emerged. From the other side of the ring the lad scanned the faces of the Afrikander's comrades, but Without the desired result.

In vain he looked for the man who, he felt confident, was the selfsame individual they had met on the Muizenberg train.

"A freak of the imagination, I suppose," decided the lad, whereupon he devoted his attention to the events in the ring.

A counter-blast of cheering announced the appearance of a challenger--Sergeant Smithers, of the 2nd Battalion West Others.h.i.+res. The Sergeant was the best boxer of his regiment, but he had forgotten that a protracted sojourn in the reputed site of the Garden of Eden--where a boundless expanse of glaring sand, a total absence of verdure, millions of tormenting flies, and a meagre menu consisting chiefly of bully beef and tepid water, are the outstanding characteristics--is apt to undermine one's physical condition.

Severely punished, Sergeant Smithers held out for five rounds, while the gigantic Jan, disdaining the services of his seconds, grimly eyed the circle of spectators in the hope of meeting another antagonist.

Softly, then gradually increasing in volume until it rose to a tremendous roar, the Maori war-song greeted the appearance of Te Paheka. In wonderment, for, with few exceptions, none of the other troops had heard the chant-like chorus before, the white men relapsed into silence. For the moment all attention was s.h.i.+fted from van Eindhovengen to the new challenger.

Although middle-aged, Te Paheka displayed the figure of an athlete.

His well-developed muscles rippled under his olivine skin. They lacked the gnarled appearance of those of his antagonist, but their easy, rhythmic undulations contrasted favourably with the jerky, bombastic movements of the Afrikander's muscles and sinews. In height van Eindhovengen exceeded him by two inches, and was a good two stone heavier. Standing alone, Te Paheka would have been regarded as a huge man. Confronting the artilleryman, he looked no more than of medium height and build.

Clad in a pair of shorts of a vivid orange hue--for Te Paheka shared with the rest of the Maoris a love of brilliant colour--and with a silk red ensign emblazoned with the New Zealand stars round his waist, Te Paheka grinned amicably at the Afrikander. The Maori's bare chest and back were covered with elaborate tattooing, but, according to modern custom, his face was unmarked.

"Allemachte!" exclaimed one of van Eindhovengen's supporters. "He is not nearly so big as Oom Jan. Oom Jan will wipe the floor with him."

"The presumptuous n.i.g.g.e.r!" said another. "He does not know Oom Jan!"

Even Malcolm felt doubtful concerning Te Paheka's chances. He knew the Maori to be a good boxer, as most natives are, but age, if only ten or fifteen years, together with inferior reach and weight, must a.s.suredly handicap Te Paheka considerably. The two men advanced and shook hands, van Eindhovengen with obvious disdain, Te Paheka as naturally as the gentleman he was.

"Take your corners, men!"

Round No. 1 commenced. The Afrikander, confident of knocking out his opponent quickly and completely, led off with a tremendous blow with his left. Had the glove hit its mark Te Paheka would have been shot over the ropes like a stone from a catapult. Stepping smartly back a couple Of paces, he allowed the blow to fall on empty air.

"Jehoshaphat!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Kennedy. "Why didn't the Maori take advantage of it? The Dutchy nearly overbalanced himself with the force of his blow."

Malcolm, to whom the remark was addressed, made no reply beyond a confident nod. Already he was tumbling to Te Paheka's tactics. The Maori was fighting a rear-guard action hoping that his staying powers and agility were greater than those of his ponderous opponent.

Round and round the ring the two men went, until the South Africans yelled to their man to hurry up and the Anzacs began to mutter impatiently.

Thud! Te Paheka had got one home on the face of the Afrikander.

Outwardly it had little or no effect upon Jan's rugged figurehead.

The Maoris yelled with delight, but the next instant their hopes were dashed to the ground as Te Paheka, incautiously attempting to follow up his advantage, laid himself open to a terrific blow from the Afrikander's right. With a dull crash he landed heavily on the sanded floor.

Over him stood van Eindhovengen, ready to strike him down should he attempt to rise. The cool, deliberate voice of the timekeeper calling off the fateful ten seconds silenced all other sounds of approbation or encouragement to the fallen man. In the intervals between the numbers one could have heard a pin drop. For the first time since the tournament started could be heard the plash of the waves against the s.h.i.+p's sides and the gentle moan of the wind through the rigging.

Seven--eight--nine!

The Afrikander struck--but struck emptiness--where Te Paheka had been a fraction of a second before. With an agility so rapid that the spectators had not time to grasp its significance, the Maori regained his feet, dealt a numbing blow upon the biceps of his antagonist, and was off to the opposite corner of the ring.

Before the boxers could engage again "Time" sounded.

Te Paheka was glad of the respite. It was also remarked that Jan did not scorn the attentions of his second. A dull mark on the upper part of his brawny right arm promised trouble to him in the near future.

During the second round the Maori kept strictly on the defensive, while van Eindhovengen tired himself considerably in making blind and ineffectual rushes at his nimble opponent. His supporters no longer yelled to him to "hurry up and knock the black out", while the Maoris sung their choruses again and again every time Jan failed to drive Te Paheka over the ropes.

The third round was a slow one. The Afrikander, realizing that he was fatiguing himself with futile efforts, adopted semi-defensive tactics, in the hope that the Maori would close. It was not until the close of time that the latter succeeded in getting home a "body punch", which did not improve Jan's temper.

"Do something this time, you chaps!" shouted a Tommy as the men faced each other for the fourth round. "You're supposed to be sparring, not going in for a waltzing race."

"By Jove, he's cornered!" exclaimed Fortescue, as Te Paheka, stepping back to avoid a left-hander, came in contact with the ropes.

The Afrikander's glove rasped the Maori's ribs. So violent was the effort that again Jan was on the point of overbalancing. This time Te Paheka followed up the advantage. An upper cut caught van Eindhovengen full on the point of his chin, while almost simultaneously the Maori drove home a resounding blow on the Afrikander's solar plexus.

Down like a felled ox the huge South African dropped. In silence the spectators heard the fateful ten seconds called, then a vociferous cheer from Afrikanders, Anzacs, and Maoris alike greeted the victor.

For that instant the sporting instincts of the men triumphed over racial prejudices, and for the rest of the voyage--and after--the Maoris and Afrikanders "hit it off" splendidly.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "BY GUM, THAT'S A MIGHTY QUEER CHUNK OF COAL!"]

CHAPTER X

Volunteers for the Stokehold

Day after day pa.s.sed, and although the _Pomfret Castle_ was pelting along at full speed there were no signs of the convoy of which the _Pintail_ formed part. If the liner were in wireless touch with the transports the fact was never communicated to the troops on board.

As far as they were concerned the South Atlantic was a desert, for not another vessel had been sighted since leaving Cape Town.

At Sierra Leone the _Pomfret Castle_ found two more liners awaiting her. Having coaled, the three vessels, under the escort of a light cruiser, left for Plymouth.

The troops were now approaching the U-boat danger-zone. For four days a course due west was maintained, until the vessels ported helm and Stood north, it being the rule that no two convoys should shape the same course through the North Atlantic.

"You've been torpedoed already, have you?" enquired an Australian, addressing Jack Kennedy. "What did you do?"

"Do?" replied the Queenslander, with a laugh. "Why, simply put on my life-belt and made tracks for the boat. We only had ten minutes before the old hooker sank. The boys had a high old time. They actually put the s.h.i.+p up for auction as she was foundering. It was a calm----"