Circus Fists by Robert E. Howard
A STEVE COSTIGAN STORY
First published in Fight Stories, December 1931
Also published as "Slugger Bait"
ME and the Old Man had a most violent row whilst the
Sea Girl was tied up at the docks of a small seaport on the West Coast.
Somebody put a pole- cat in the Old Man's bunk, and he accused me of doing
it. I denied it indignantly, and asked him where he reckoned I would get a
pole-cat, and he said well, it was a cinch somebody had got a
pole-cat, because there it was, and it was his opinion that I was the only
man of the crew which was low- down enough to do a trick like that.
This irritated me, and I told him he oughta know it wasn't me, because I
had the reputation of being kind to animals, and I wouldn't put a decent
skunk where it would have to associate with a critter like the Old Man.
This made him so mad that he busted a bottle of good rye whiskey over my
head. Annoyed at such wanton waste of good licker, I grabbed the old walrus
and soused him in a horse-trough—us being on the docks at the
The Old Man ariz like Neptune from the deep, and, with whiskers dripping,
he shook his fists at me and yelled, "Don't never darken my decks again,
Steve Costigan. If you ever try to come aboard the Sea Girl, I'll fill
you fulla buckshot, you mutineerin' pirate!"
"Go set on a marlin-spike," I sneered. "I wouldn't sail with you again for
ten bucks a watch and plum duff every mess. I'm through with the sea, anyhow.
You gimme a bad taste for the whole business. A landman's life is the life
for me, by golly. Me and Mike is goin' to fare forth and win fame and fortune
And so saying, I swaggered away with my white bulldog, follered clean outa
sight by the Old Man's sincere maledictions.
Casting about for amusement, I soon come onto a circus which was going
full blast at the edge of town. I seen a side-show poster which said,
Battling Bingo, Champion of the West Coast. So I went in and they was
considerable of a crowd there and a big dumb-looking mutt in tights standing
up in a ring, flexing his arms and showing off his muscles.
"Gents," yelled the barker, a flashy-dressed young feller with a diamond
horse-shoe stick-pin, "the management offers fifty dollars to any man which
can stay four rounds with this tiger of the ring! Five minutes ago I made the
same offer on the platform outside, and some gent took me up. But now he
seems to have got cold feet, and is nowhere to be found. So here and now I
again make the original proposition—fifty round, bright iron men to
any guy which can stay four rounds with this man-killin' terror, this
fire-breathin' murderer, this iron-fisted man-mountain, Battling Bingo, the
Terror of the Rockies!"
The crowd whooped, and three or four fellers made a move like they was
going to take up the challenge, but I brushed 'em scornfully aside and
bellered, "I'll take that dough, mate!"
I bounced into the ring, and the barker said, "You realize that the
management ain't responsible for life or limb?"
"Aw, stow that guff and gimme them gloves," I roared, ripping off my
shirt. "Get ready, champeen. I'm goin' to knock your crown off!"
The gong sounded, and we went for each other. They wasn't no canvas
stretched across the back of the ring where Bingo couldst shove me up against
to be blackjacked by somebody behind it, so I knowed very well he had a iron
knuckle-duster on one of his hands, and, from the way he dangled his right, I
knowed that was the hand. So I watched his right, and, when he throwed it, I
stepped inside of his swing and banged him on the whiskers with a left and a
right hook which tucked him away for the evening.
The crowd roared in huge approval, and I jerked the wad of greenbacks outa
the barker's hand and started away when he stopped me.
"Say," he said, "I reckernize you now. You're Sailor Costigan. How'd you
like to take this tramp's place? We'll pay you good wages."
"All I got to do is flatten jobbies?" I said, and he said it was. So
that's how I come to start working in Flash Larney's Gigantic Circus and
Each night I'd appear in fighting tights before the multitude, and the
barker, Joe Beemer, wouldst go through the usual ballyhoo, and then all I had
to do was to knock the blocks offa the saps which tried to collect the fifty.
I wouldn't use the knuckle-duster. I wouldn't of used it even if I'd of
needed it, which I didn't. If I can't sock a palooka to sleep, fair and
above-board, with my own personal knuckles, then they ain't no use in trying
to dint him with a load of iron.
We worked up and down the West Coast and inland, and it was mostly easy.
The men which tried to lick me was practically all alley-fighters—big
strong fellers, but they didn't know nothing. Mostly farmers, blacksmiths,
sailors, longshoremen, miners, cowpunchers, bar-room bouncers. All I had to
do was to hit 'em. More'n once I knocked out three or four men in one
I always got action because the crowd was always against me, just like
they was against Battling Bingo when I flattened him. A crowd is always
against the carnival fighter, whether they know his opponent or not. And when
the opponent is some well-known local boy, they nearly have hydrophobia in
You oughta heered the cheers they'd give their home-town pride, and the
dirty remarks they'd yell at me. No matter how hard I was fighting, I
generally found time to reply to their jeers with choice insults I had picked
up all over the seven seas, with the result that the maddened mob wouldst
spew forth more raging sluggers to be slaughtered. Some men can't fight their
best when the crowd's against 'em, but I always do better, if anything. It
makes me mad, and I take it out on my opponent.
When I wasn't performing in the ring, I was driving stakes, setting up or
taking down tents, and fighting with my circus-mates. Larney's outfit had the
name of being the toughest on the Coast, and it was. The fights I had in the
ring wasn't generally a stitch to them I had on the lot.
Well, I always makes it a point to be the champeen of whatever outfit I'm
with, and I done so in this case. The first day I was with the show I licked
three razor-backs, the lion-tamer and a side-show barker, and from then on it
was a battle practically every day till them mutts realized I was the best
man on the lot.
Fighting all the time like I was, I got so hard and mean I surprised
myself. They wasn't a ounce of flesh on me that wasn't like iron, and I
believe I could of run ten miles at top speed without giving out. The Dutch
weight- lifter figgered to give me a close scrimmage, but he was way too
slow. The toughest scrap I had was with a big Japanese acrobat. We fought all
over the lot one morning, and everybody postponed the parade for a hour to
watch. I was about all in when I finally put the heathen away, but, with my
usual recuperative powers, I was able to go on that night as usual, and
flatten a farm-hand, a piano-mover and a professional football player.
Some trouble was had with Mike, which always set in my corner and bit
anybody which tried to hit me through the ropes, as often happened when the
local boy started reeling. Larney wanted to shave him and tattoo him and put
him in a sideshow.
"The tattooed dog!" said Larney. "That would draw 'em! A novelty! Can't
you see the crowds flockin' through the gates for a look at him?"
"I can see me bustin' you in the snoot," I growled. "You let Mike
"Well," said Larney, "we got to make him more presentable. He looks kinda
crude and uncultured alongside our trained poodles."
So the lion-trainer bathed Mike and combed him and perfumed him, and put
on a little fool dog-blanket with straps and gilt buckles, and tied a big bow
ribbon on his stump tail. But Mike seen himself in a mirror and tore off all
that rigging and bit the lion-tamer.
Well, they had a old decrepit lion by the name of Oswald which didn't have
no teeth, and Mike got to sleeping in his cage. So they fixed a place where
Mike couldst get in and out without Oswald getting out, and made a kind of
act out of it.
Larney advertised Mike as the dog which laid down with the lion, and
wouldst have Mike and Oswald in the cage together, and spiel about how
ferocious Oswald was, and how unusual it was for a friendship to spring up
between such natural enemies. But the reason Mike slept in the cage was that
they put more straw in it than they did in the other cages on account of
Oswald being old and thin-blooded, and Mike liked a soft bed.
Larney was afraid Mike would hurt Oswald, but the only critters Mike
couldn't get along with was Amir, a big African leopard which had already
kilt three men, and Sultan, the man-eating tiger. They was the meanest
critters in the show, and was always trying to get out and claw Mike up. But
he wasn't afeard of 'em.
Well, I was having a lot of fun. I thrives in a rough environment like
that, though I'll admit I sometimes got kinda homesick for the Sea
Girl and the sea, and wondered what Bill O'Brien and Mushy Hanson and Red
O'Donnell was doing. But I got my pride, and I wouldn't go back after the Old
Man had pratically kicked me out to shift for myself.
Anyway, it was a lot of fun. I'd stand out on the platform in front of the
tent with my massive arms folded and a scowl on my battered face, whilst Joe
Beemer wouldst cock his derby back on his head and start the ballyhoo.
He'd whoop and yell and interjuice me to the crowd as "Sailor Costigan,
the Massive Man-mauler of the Seven Seas!" And I'd do strong-man stunts
—twisting horse-shoes in two and bending coins between my fingers and
etc. Then he'd rare back and holler, "Is they any man in this fair city
courageous enough to try and stay four rounds with this slashin' slugger?
Take a chance, boys—he's been drivin' stakes all day and maybe he's
tired and feeble—heh! heh! heh!"
Then generally some big ham wouldst jump outa the crowd and roar, "I'll
fight the so-and-so." And Joe wouldst rub his hands together and say under
his breath, "Money, roll in! I need groceries!" And he'd holler, "Right this
way, gents! Right through the door to the left. Ten cents admission—
one dime! See the battle of the century! Don't crowd, folks. Don't
The tent was nearly always packed with raging fans which honed at the top
of their voices for their local hope to knock my iron skull off. However
small a tank-town might be, it generally had at least one huge roughneck with
a reputation of some kind.
One time we hit a town in the throes of a rassling carnival. Nobody
couldst be found to box with me, but a big Polack came forward claiming to be
the rassling champeen of the West—I ain't never seen a rassler which
wasn't champeen of something—and wanted me to rassle him. Beemer
refused, and the crowd hissed, and the rassler said I was yeller.
I seen red and told him I wasn't no rassler but I'd give him more'n he
could tote home. He figgered I was easy, but he got fooled. I don't know a
lot about scientific rassling, but I know plenty rough-and-tumble, and I was
so incredibly hard and tough, and played so rough that I broke his arm and
dislocated his shoulder. And after that nobody ast me to rassle.
It wasn't long after that when we blowed into a mining town by the name of
Ironville, up in the Nevada hills, and from the looks of the populace I
figgered I'd have plenty of competition that night. I wasn't fooled none,
neither, believe me.
Long before we was ready to start the show, a huge crowd of tough-looking
mugs in boots and whiskers was congregated around the athaletic tent, which
wasn't showing no interest whatever in the main-top nor the freaks nor the
Joe hadn't hardly got started on his ballyhoo when through the crowd come
a critter which looked more like a grizzly than a man—a big black-
headed feller with shoulders as broad as a door, and arms like a bear's paw.
From the way the crowd all swarmed around him, I figgered he was a man of
some importance in Ironville.
I was right.
"You don't need to say no more, pard," he rumbled in a voice like a bull.
"I'll take a whirl at yore tramp!"
Joe looked at the black-browed giant, and he kinda got cold feet for the
first time in his career.
"Who are you?" he demanded, uneasily.
The big feller grinned woIfishly and said, "Who, me? Oh, I'm just a
blacksmith around here." And the crowd all whooped and yelled and laughed
like he'd said something very funny.
"Somethin's fishy about this, Steve," whispered Joe to me. "I don't like
the looks of it."
About that time the crowd began to hiss and boo, and the big feller said
nastily, "Well, what's the matter—you hombres gettin' yeller?"
I seen red. "Get into this tent, you black-muzzled palooka!" I roared.
"I'll show you who's yeller! Shut up, Joe. Ain't I always said I barred
nobody? What's the matter with you, anyhow?"
"I tell you, Steve," he said, wiping his forehead with his bandanner, "I
seen this big punk somewheres, and if he's a simple blacksmith I'm a
"Gahhh!" I snorted disgustfully. "When I get through with him, he'll look
like a carpet. Have I lost you a penny since I joined the show? Naw! Come
And so saying, I swaggered into the tent and bounded into the ring while
the crowd gathered around, packing the place solid, applauding their man and
howling insults at me, which I returned with interest, that being a game at
which I ain't no amateur myself.
Joe started to lead the big feller to the dressing-room which was
partitioned off with a curtain in one corner of the tent, but he snorted and
began ripping off his clothes then and there, revealing ring togs under 'em.
Ah, thought I, he come here with the intention of going on with me. Some
local battler, no doubtless.
When he clumb into the ring, they was several men with him—one a
tall cold-faced man which looked like a high-class gambler, and who they
called Brelen, and three or four tough mugs which was to act as seconds. They
had the game writ all over their flat noses and tin ears. In fact, it looked
to me like the big feller had a right elaborate follering, even if he was a
local white hope.
"Who referee's?" asked Brelen, the poker-faced gent.
"Oh, I referee," said Joe.
"Not this time you don't," said Brelen. "The crowd chooses a referee
who'll give my boy a square deal, see?"
"It's against the rules of the management—" began Joe, and the crowd
rumbled and began to surge forward. "All right, all right," said Joe,
hurriedly. "It's okay with me."
Brelen grinned kinda thin-like, and turned to the crowd and said, "Well,
boys, who do you want to referee?"
"Honest Jim Donovan!" they roared, and pushed forward a bald-headed old
sea-lion which had the crookedest face I ever seen on a human. Joe give him a
look and clasped his head and groaned. The crowd was nasty—itching
for trouble. Joe was kinda white around the gills, and my handlers was
uneasy. I was glad I'd locked Mike up in Oswald's cage before the show
started, being suspicious of the customers. Mike ain't got much discretion;
when the crowd starts throwing things at me, he's likely to go for 'em.
"Gents," yelled Joe, who, being a natural-born barker, couldn't keep his
mouth shut if he swung for it, "you are now about to witness the battle of
the centu-ree, wherein the Fighting Blacksmith of your fair city endeavors to
stay four actual rounds with Sailor Costigan, the Terror of the Seven
"Aw, shut up and get out of this ring," snarled Brelen. "Let the massacre
The gong sounded and the Blacksmith come swinging outa his corner.
Jerusha, he was a man! He stood six feet one and a quarter and weighed not
less than two hundred and ten pounds to my six feet and one ninety. With a
broad chest matted with black hair, arms knotted with muscles like full-sized
cables, legs like trees, a heavy jutting jaw, a broad fighting face with
wicked gray eyes glittering from under thick black brows, and a shock of
coarse black hair piled up on top of his low, broad forehead—I wanta
tell you I ain't never seen a more formidable-looking fighter in my life!
We rushed together like a pair of mad bulls. Bang! In a shower of
stars I felt myself flying through the air, and I landed on my shoulders with
a jolt that shook the ring. Zowie! I sprawled about, almost petrified with
dumfoundment. The crowd was whooping and cheering and laughing like all get-
I glared in wild amazement at the black-headed giant which was standing
almost over me, with a nasty grin on his lips. A light dawned.
"Blacksmith my eye!" I roared, leaping up at him. "They ain't but one man
in the world can hit a lick like that—Bill Cairn!"
I heard Joe's despairing howl as I slashed into my foe. Wham! Wham!
I was on the resin again before I even got a chance to connect. The yells
sounded kinda jumbled this time, and I shook my head violently, cussing
fervently as I got my feet under me. Ironville. I oughta knowed—Bill
Cairn, which they called the Ironville Blacksmith, the hardest hitter in the
game! This was his home town, and this was him!
Fighting mad, I bounded up, but Cairn was so close to me that he reached
me with one of his pile-driving left hooks before I was balanced, and down I
went again. Now the yelling was kinda dim and the lights was quaking and
rocking. I crouched, taking a count which Honest Jim was reeling off a lot
faster than necessary. Bill Cairn! The kayo king of the heavyweights, with
thirty or forty knockouts in a row, and never been socked off his feet,
himself. He was in line for a crack at the champ—and I was supposed
to flatten this grizzly in four rounds!
I was up at nine, and, ducking a savage drive for the face, I clinched. By
golly, it was like tying up a grizzly. But I ain't no chicken myself. I
gripped him in a desperate bear-hug whilst him and the referee cussed and
strained, and the crowd begged him to shake me loose and kill me.
"You side-show rat!" he gritted between his teeth. "Leggo whilst I rip
yore head off! How can I show my best stuff with you hangin' on like a
"This is cheap stuff for a headliner like you!" I snarled, red-eyed.
"Givin' my home town folks a free show," he grinned, nastily. "It was just
my luck to have a mug like you blow in whilst I was visitin' back home."
Oh, I see the idee all right. It was a big joke with him to knock me off
and give his friends a treat—show off before the home-folks! He was
laughing at me and so was all them Ironville lubbers. Well, I thought,
grinding my teeth with red rage, they's many a good man punched hisself into
fistic oblivion on my iron jaw.
I let go of Cairn and throwed my right at his jaw like it was a hammer. He
pulled away from it and—bang! It mighta been a left hook to
the head. It felt like a handspike. And the next instant, whilst my eyes was
still full of stars, I felt another jolt like a concentrated earthquake.
Purty soon I heered somebody say, "Seven!" and I instinctively clumb up
and looked about for my foe. I didn't locate him, as he was evidently
standing behind me, but I did locate a large gloved mauler which crashed
under my ear and nearly unjinted my neck. I done a beautiful dive, ploughing
my nose vigorously into the resin, whilst the crowd wept with delight, and
then I heered a noise like a sleigh-bell and was aware of being dragged to my
A snifter of ammonia brung me to myself, and I discovered I was propped on
my stool and being worked over by my handlers and Joe, who was bleeding from
a cut over the temple.
"How'd you get that?" I asked groggily.
"One of these eggs hit me with a bottle," he said. "They claim I jerked
the gong too soon. Listen at 'em! Toughest crowd I ever seen."
They sure was. They was rumbling and growling, just seething for a scrap,
but stopping now and then to cheer Cairn, which was bowing and smirking in
"I knew I'd seen him," said Joe, "and Ace Brelen, his manager. The lousy
chiselers! You ain't got a chance, Steve—"
At this moment a rough-whiskered mug stuck his head through the ropes and
waved a coil of rope at Joe.
"We're on to you, you rat!" he bellered. "None of your side-show tricks,
understand? If you try anything dirty, we'll stretch your neck. And that goes
for you, too, you tin-eared gorilla!"
"So's your old man!" I roared, kicking out with all my might. My heel
crunched solid on his jaw, and he shot back into the first row amongst a
tangle of busted seats and cussing customers, from which he emerged bleeding
at the mouth and screaming with rage. He was fumbling for a gun in his shirt,
but just then the gong sounded and me and Cairn went for each other.
I come in fast, and figgered on beating him to the punch, but he was too
quick for me. He wasn't so clever, but he moved like a big cat, and the very
power of his punches was a swell defense. No man couldst keep his balance
under them thundering smashes, even if they didn't land on no vital spot.
Just trying to block 'em numbed my arms.
Zip! His left whizzed past my jaw like a red-hot brick.
Zinggg! His right burned my ear as it went by. I seen a opening and
shot my right with everything I had. But I was too eager; my arm looped over
his shoulder and he banged his left into my ribs, which I distinctly felt
bend almost to the breaking point as my breath went outa me in a explosive
I throwed my arms about him in a vain effort to clinch, but he pushed me
away and slammed a full-armed right to my jaw. Crash! I felt myself
turning a complete somersault in the air, and I landed on my belly with my
head sticking out under the ropes and ogling glassily down at the ecstatic
customers. One of these riz up and slashed his thigh with his hat and,
sticking his face almost into mine, yelled, "Well, you carnival punk, how do
you like those?"
"Like this!" I roared, catching him on the whiskers with a unexpected bash
that sunk his nose in the sawdust. I then rolled over on my back and,
observing that the referee had rapidly counted up to nine, I ariz and,
abandoning my scanty boxing skill, started slugging wild and ferocious in the
hope of landing a haymaker.
But that was Cairn's game; he blocked my punches for a second or so, then
bang! he caught me square on the chin with one of them thunderbolt
rights which shot me back into the ropes, and I rebounded from 'em square
into a whistling left hook that dropped me face-down in the resin.
I couldst dimly hear the crowd yelling like wolves. When the average man
falls face-first he's through, but nobody never accused me of being a average
man. At nine I was up as usual, reeling, and Cairn approached me with a look
of disgust on his brutal face.
"Will you stay down?" he gritted, and, measuring me with a left, he
crashed his right square into my mouth, and I went down like a pole-axed
"That finishes him!" I heered somebody yelp, and evidently Cairn thought
so too, because he give a scornful laugh and started toward his corner where
his manager was getting his bathrobe ready. But I got my legs under me and at
nine I staggered up, as is my habit.
"Come back here, you big sissy!" I roared groggily, spitting out fragments
of a tooth. "This fight ain't over by a devil of a ways!"
The mob screamed with amazement, and Cairn, swearing ferociously, turned
and rushed at me like a tiger. But though I reeled on buckling knees, I
didn't go down under his smashing left hooks.
"Why don't you get a ax, you big false-alarm?" I sneered, trying to shake
the blood outa my eyes. "What you got in them gloves—powder
At that he give a roar which made the ring lights shimmy, and brought one
up from the canvas which hung me over the top rope just as the gong sounded.
Joe and his merry men untangled my limp carcass and held me on the stool
while they worked despairingly over me.
"Drop it, Steve," urged Joe. "Cairn will kill you."
"How many times was I on the canvas that round?" I asked.
"How should I know?" he returned, peevishly, wringing the gore out of my
towel. "I ain't no adding machine."
"Well, try to keep count, willya?" I requested. "It's important; I can
tell how much he's weakenin' if you check up on the knockdowns from round to
Joe dropped the sponge he was fixing to throw into the ring.
"Ye gods! Are you figgerin' on continuin' the massakree?"
"He can't keep this pace all night," I growled. "Lookit Brelen talkin' to
his baby lamb!"
Ace was gesticulating purty emphatic, and Cairn was growling back at him
and glaring at me and kneading his gloves like he wisht it was my goozle. I
knowed that Brelen was telling him this scrap was getting beyond the point of
a joke, and that it wasn't helping his reputation none for me to keep getting
up on him, and for him to make it another quick kayo. Ha, ha, thought I
grimly, shaking the blood outa my mangled ear, let's see how quick a kayo
Bill Cairn can make where so many other iron-fisted sluggers has failed.
At the gong I was still dizzy and bleeding copiously, but that's a old
story to me.
Cairn, infuriated at not having finished me, rushed outa his corner and
throwed over a terrible right, which I seen coming like a cannonball, and
ducked. His arm looped over my shoulder and his shoulder rammed into my neck
with such force that we both crashed to the canvas.
Cairn untangled hisself with a snarl of irritation, and, assisted by the
fair-minded referee, arose, casually kicking me in the face as he done so. I
ariz likewise, and, enraged by my constant position on the canvas, looped a
whistling left at his head that would of undoubtedly decapitated him hadst it
landed—but luck was against me as usual. My foot slipped in a smear
of my own blood, my swing was wild, and I run smack into his ripping
I fell into Cairn, ignoring an uppercut which loosened all my lower teeth,
and tied him up.
"Leggo, you tin-eared baboon!" he snarled, heaving and straining. "Try to
show me up, wouldja? Try to make a monkey outa me, wouldja?"
"Nature's already attended to that, you lily-fingered tap-dancer," I
croaked. "A flapper with a powder-puff couldst do more damage than you can
with them chalk-knuckled bread-hooks."
"So!" he yelled, jerking away and crashing his right to my jaw with every
ounce of his huge frame behind it. I revolved in the air like a spin-wheel,
felt the ropes scrape my back, and realized that I was falling through space.
Crash! My fall was cushioned by a mass of squirming, cussing fans,
else I would of undoubtedly broke my back.
I looked up, and high above me, it seemed, I seen the referee leaning over
the ropes and counting down at me. I began to kick and struggle, trying to
get up, and a number of willing hands—and a few hob-nailed boots
—hoisted me offa the squawking fans, and I grabbed the ropes and swung
Somebody had a grip on my belt, and I heard a guy growl. "You're licked,
you fool! Take the count. Do you want to get slaughtered?"
"Leggo!" I roared, kicking out furiously. "I ain't never licked!"
I tore loose and crawled through the ropes—it looked like I'd
never make it—and hauled myself up just as the referee was lifting
his arm to bring it down on "Ten!" Cairn didn't rush this time; he was
scowling, and I noticed that sweat was streaming down his face, and his huge
chest was heaving.
Some of the crowd yelled, "Stop it!" but most of 'em whooped, "Now you got
him, Bill. Polish him off!"
Cairn measured me, and smashed his right into my face. The top-rope
snapped as I crashed back against it, but I didn't fall. Cairn swore in
amazement, and drawed back his right again, when the gong sounded. He
hesitated, then lemme have it anyway—a pile-driving smash that nearly
lifted me offa my feet. And the crowd cheered the big egg. My handlers
jostled him aside and, as they pulled me offa the ropes, Cairn sneered and
walked slowly to his corner.
Supported on my stool, I seen Joe pick up a sponge stealthily.
"Drop that sponge!" I roared, and Joe, seeing the baleful light in my one
good eye, done so like it was red-hot.
"Lemme catch you throwin' a sponge in for me!" I growled. "Gimme ammonia!
Dump that bucket of water over me! Slap the back of my neck with a wet towel!
One more round to go, and I gotta save that fifty bucks!"
Swearing dumfoundedly, my handlers did as they was bid, and I felt better
and stronger every second. Even they couldn't understand how I couldst take
such a beating and come back for more. But any slugger which depends on his
ruggedness to win his fights understands it. We got to be solid iron—
and we are.
Besides, my recent rough-and-ready life hadst got me into condition such
as few men ever gets in, even athaletes. This, coupled with my amazing
recuperative powers, made me just about unbeatable. Cairn could, and had,
battered me from pillar to post, knocked me down repeatedly, and had me
groggy and glassy-eyed, but he hadn't sapped the real reservoir of my
vitality. Being groggy and being weak is two different things. Cairn hadn't
weakened me. The minute my head cleared under the cold water and ammonia, I
was as good as ever. Well, just about, anyhow.
So I come out for the fourth round raring to go. Cairn didn't rush as
usual. In fact, he looked a little bit sick of his job. He walked out and
lashed at my head with his left. He connected solid, but I didn't go down.
And for the first time I landed squarely. Bang. My right smashed under
his ear, and his head rocked on his bull's neck.
With a roar of fury, he come back with a thundering right to the head, but
it only knocked me to my knees, and I was up in a instant. I was out- lasting
him! His blows was losing their dynamite! This realization electrified me,
and I bored in, slashing with both hands.
A left to the face staggered but didn't stop me, and I ripped a terrific
left hook under his heart. He grunted and backed away. He wasn't near as good
at taking punishment as he was at handing it out. I slashed both hands to his
head, and the blood flew. With a deafening roar, he sunk his right mauler
clean outa sight in my belly.
I thought for a second that my spine was broke, as I curled up on the
canvas, gasping. The referee sprang forward and began counting, and I looked
for Cairn, expecting to see him standing almost astraddle of me, as usual,
waiting to slug me down as I got up. He wasn't; but was over against the
ropes, holding onto 'em with one mitt whilst he wiped the blood and sweat
outa his eyes with the other'n. And I seen his great chest heaving, his belly
billowing out and in, and his leg muscles quivering.
Grinning wolfishly, I drawed in great gulps of air and beat the count by a
second. Cairn lurched offa the ropes at me, swinging a wide left, but I went
under it and crashed my right to his heart. He rolled like a ship in a heavy
gale, and I knowed I had him. That last punch which had floored me had been
his dying effort. He'd fought hisself clean out on me, as so many a man had
didst. Strategy, boy, strategy!
I went after him like a tiger after a bull, amid a storm of yells and
curses and threats. The crowd, at first dumfounded, was now leaping up and
down and shaking their fists and busting chairs and threatening me with
torture and sudden death if I licked their hero. But I was seeing red.
Wait'll you've took the beating I'd took and then get a chance to even it up!
I ripped both hands to Cairn's quivering belly and swaying head, driving him
to the ropes, off of which he rolled drunkenly.
I heered a gong sounding frantically; Brelen hadst knocked the time-
keeper stiff with a blackjack and was trying to save his man. Also the
referee was grabbing at me, trying to push me away. But I give no heed. A
left and right under the heart buckled Cairn's knees, and a blazing right to
the temple glazed his eyes. He reeled, and a trip-hammer left hook to the jaw
that packed all my beef sent him crashing to the canvas, just as the crowd
come surging into the ring, tearing down the ropes. I seen Joe take it on the
run, ducking out under the wall of the tent, and yelling, "Hey, Rube!"
Then me and the handlers was engulfed. Half a hundred hands grabbed at me,
and fists, boots and chairs swung for me. But I ducked, ripping off my
gloves, and come up fighting like a wild man.
I swung my fists like they was topping-mauls, and ribs snapped and noses
and jaw-bones cracked, whilst through the melee I caught glimpses of Brelen
and his men carrying out their battered gladiator. He was still limp.
Just as the sheer number of maddened citizens was dragging me down, a gang
of frothing razor-backs come through the tent like a whirlwind, swinging pick
handles and tent-stakes.
Well, I ain't seen many free-for-alls to equal that 'un! The circus war-
whoop of "Hey, Rube!" mingled with the blood-thirsty yells of the customers.
The Iron-villians outnumbered us, but we give 'em a bellyful. In about three
seconds the ring was tore to pieces and the storm of battle surged into the
tent-wall, which collapsed under the impact.
Knives was flashing and a few guns barking, and all I wonder is that
somebody wasn't kilt. The athaletic tent was literally ripped plumb to
ribbons, and the battle surged out onto the grounds and raged around the
other tents and booths.
Then a wild scream went up: "Fire!" And over everything was cast a lurid
glow. Somehow or other the main top hadst caught in the melee—or
maybe some fool set it on fire. A strong wind was fanning the flames, which
mounted higher each second. In a instant the fight was abandoned. Everything
was in a tumult, men running and yelling, children squalling, women
screaming. The circus-people was running and hauling the cages and wagons
outa the animal tent, which was just catching. The critters was bellering and
howling in a most hair-raising way, and I remembered Mike in Oswald's cage. I
started for there on the run, when there riz a most fearful scream above all
the noise: "The animals are loose!"
Everybody hollered and tore their hair and ran, and here come the
elephants like a avalanche! They crashed over wagons and cages and booths,
trumpeting like Judgment Day, and thundered on into the night. How they got
loose nobody never exactly knowed. Anything can happen in a fire. But, in
stampeding, they'd bumped into and busted open some more cages, letting loose
the critters inside.
And here they come roaring—Sultan, the tiger, and Amir, the
leopard, killers both of 'em. A crowd of screaming children rushed by me, and
right after them come that striped devil, Sultan, his eyes blazing. I grabbed
up a heavy tent-stake and leaped betweenst him and the kids. He roared and
leaped with his talons spread wide, and I braced my feet and met him in mid-
air with a desperate smash that had every ounce of my beef behind it. The
impact nearly knocked me offa my feet, and the stake splintered in my hand,
but Sultan rolled to the ground with a shattered skull.
And almost simultaneously a terrible cry from the people made me wheel
just in time to see Amir racing toward me like a black shadder with balls of
fire for eyes. And, just as I turned, he soared from the ground straight at
my throat. I didn't have time to do nothing. He crashed full on my broad
breast, and his claws ripped my hide as the impact dashed me to the earth.
And at the same instant I felt another shock which knocked him clear of
I scrambled up to see a squat white form tearing and worrying at the limp
body of the big cat. Again Mike had saved my worthless life. When Amir hit
me, he hit Amir and broke his neck with one crunch of his iron jaws. He'd
squoze out between the bars of Oswald's cage and come looking for me.
He lolled out his tongue, grinning, and vibrated his stump tail, and all
to once I heered my name called in a familiar voice. Looking around, I seen a
battered figger crawl out from under the ruins of a band-wagon, and, in the
lurid light of the burning tents, I reckernized him.
"Jerusha!" I said. "The Old Man! What you doin' under that wagon?"
"I crawled under there to keep from bein' trampled by the mob," he said,
working his legs to see if they was broke. "And it was a good idee, too, till
a elephant run over the wagon. By gad, if I ever get safe to sea once more
I'll never brave the perils of the land again, I wanta tell ya!"
"Did you see me lick Bill Cairn?" I asked.
"I ain't see nothin' but a passel of luneyticks," he snapped. "I arrived
just as the free-for-all was ragin'. I don't mind a rough-house, but when
they drags in a fire and a stampede of jungle-critters, I'm ready to weigh
anchor! And you!" he added, accusingly. "A merry chase you've led me, you big
sea-lion! I've come clean from Frisco, and it looked for a while like I
wouldn't never find this blame circus."
"What you wanta find it for?" I growled, the thought of my wrongs renewing
"Steve," said the Old Man, "I done you a injustice! It was the cabin-boy
which put that pole-cat in my bunk—I found it out after he jumped
ship. Steve, as champeen of the old Sea Girl, I asks you—let
bygones be gone-byes! Steve, me and the crew has need of your mallet-like
fists. At Seattle, a few weeks ago, I shipped on a fiend in human form by the
name of Monagan, which immediately set hisself up as the bully of the
fo'c'le. I had to put in Frisco because of shortage of hands. Even now, Mate
O'Donnell, Mushy Hanson and Jack Lynch lies groanin' in their bunks from his
man-handlin', and he has likewise licked Bill O'Brien, Maxie Heimer and Sven
Larsen. He has threatened to hang me on my own bow-sprit by my whiskers. I
dast not fire him, for fear of my life. Steve!" the Old Man's voice trembled
with emotion, "I asks you—forgive and forget! Come back to the Sea
Girland demonstrate the eternal brotherhood of man by knockin' the devil
outa this demon Monagan before he destroys us all! Show the monster who's the
real champeen of the craft!"
"Well," I said, "I got some money comin' to me from Larney—but let
it go. He'll need it repairin' his show. Monagan, of Seattle—bah! I
hammered him into a pulp in Tony Vitello's poolroom three years ago, and I
can do it again. Calls hisself champeen of the Sea Girl, huh? Well,
when I kick his battered carcass onto the wharf, he'll know who's champeen of
the craft. They never was, and they ain't now, and they never will be but one
champeen of her, and that's Steve Costigan, A.B. Let's go! I wasn't never cut
out for no peaceful landlubber's existence, nohow."