Champ of the Forecastle
I DON'T HAVE to have a woman tell me she craves war. I can tell it by the set of her jaw, the glare in her eyes. So, when Ingrid Larson raised her huge frame on her bunk and accused me of swiping her tobacco, I knew very well what her idea was. But I didn't want to fight Ingrid. Havin' licked the big bitch three or four times already, I saw no need in mauling her any more.
"Ingrid, that's purddy crude.” I said somewhat to the surprise of the rest of the crew as I stripped off my top and bra leaving only my dingy capri pants on “You didn't need to think up no lie to pick a fight with me. I know you crave to be champion of the Sea Girl, but you ain't gotta chance, and I don't want to hurt you--"
I got no further, because with a war yell she heaved herself offa her bunk, ripped off her top freeing her massive DD breasts and come for me like a wild woman. God, what a familiar scene that was--the fierce, hard faces ringing us, the rough bunks along the wall, the dim light of the lantern swinging overhead, and me standing in the middle, barefooted and stripped to the waist, holding my title against all comers! There ain't an inch of that forecastle floor that I ain't reddened with my blood. There ain't an edge of a upper bunk that I ain't had my head smashed against. And since I been a grown woman there ain't a sailor on the Seven Seas that can say she stood up to me in that forecastle and beat me down. The lurching of the ship and the unsteady footing don't bother me none, nor the close space and foul, smoke-laden air. That's my element, and if I could fight in the ring like I can in the forecastle, with nothing barred, I'd be champion of something besides a tramp wind-jammer.
Well, Ingrid come at me with her old style--straight up, wide open, with a wild swinging right. I ducked inside it and smashed my left to her big ole’ tit, following instantly with a blasting right hook to the jaw as she sagged. She started falling and a lurch of the ship throwing her half under a opposite bunk. There is no mercy asked, given or expected in a forecastle fight; it's always to the finish. I was right after her and no sooner had she got to her feet than I smashed her down again before she could get her hands up.
"Let's call it a day, Ingrid," I growled. "I don't want to punch you no more."
But she came weaving up, spitting blood and roaring in her own tongue. She tried to rip my hair out and maul my tits, but another right hook to the jaw sent her down and out. I shook the sweat outa my eyes, pulled down my pants and sat my cooze down on her face to let every girl know the price of losing. As the big blond kissed my pussy I glared down at her in some irritation, which was mixed with the satisfaction of knowing that again I had proved my right to the title of champion of the toughest ship afloat. Maybe you think that's a mighty small thing, but it's the only title I got and I'm proud of it.
But I couldn't figger out Ingrid. Me and her was good friends ordinarily, but every so often she'd get the idea she could lick me. So the next day I looked her up between watches and found her sulking and brooding. I looked over her enormous frame and shook my head in wonder to think that I had gotten no further in the legitimate ring than I have, when I can lay out such incredible monsters as Ingrid so easy.
She was six feet even in her socks, and her one hundred and seventy-five pounds, of blond Scandinavian blue-eyed muscle. I can pull a rope as hard as any man on the ship, tear up decks of cards and twist horseshoes in two, but Ingrid’s so much stronger than me there is no comparison. But size and strength ain't everything.
"Ingrid," said I, "how come you forever got to be fightin' me?"
Well, at first she wouldn't say, but at last it come out.
"AYE BEAN GOT man at Stockholm. He bean liking me purddy good, but they bean another dame. Her name bean Olga and she work at a fishing smack. Always when aye go out with my man, she bean yump on me and she always lick me. Aye tank if aye ever lick you, aye can lick Olga."
"So you practice on me, hey?" I said. "Well, Ingrid, you never will lick me or Olga nor any woman which can use her hands unless you change your style. Oh, uh course, you're a wildcat when it comes to fightin' ignorant street walkers and deck-hands which never seen a glove and can't do nothin' but claw, bite and gouge. But you see what happens when you get up against a real fightin' woman, Ingrid," said I on a sudden impulse like I usually do, "far be it from me to see a deep water swab get beat up regular by a Baltic bimbo. It's a reflection on the profession and on the ship, Ingrid," said I, "I'm goin' to train you to lick this big bitch."
Well, I never give much thought to Ingrid before, only in a general way-you can't pay close attention to every airhead which comes and goes aboard a trading ship-but in the weeks which followed I done my best to make a fighting woman of her. I rigged up a punching bag for her and sparred with her between watches. When her or me wasn't doing our trick at the wheel or holystoning the deck, or scraping the cable or hauling on a rope, or trimming sail or exchanging insults with the mates, I tried to teach her all I knew.
Understand, I didn't try to make no boxing wizard outa her. The big slob couldn't of learned even if I could of taught her. And I didn't know how myself. I ain't a clever boxer. I'm a rough and willing mixer in the ring, but compared to rough-house scrappers like Ingrid, I'm a wonder. The simple ducking, slipping and blocking, which even the crudest slugger does in the ring, is beyond the ken of the average untrained woman, and as for scientific hitting, they never heard of it. They just draw back the right and let it go without any aim, timing nor nothing. Well, I just taught Ingrid the fundamentals--to stand with her left foot forward and not get her legs crossed, to lead with her left and to time and aim a little. I got her outa the habit of swinging wild and wide open with her right all the time, and by constant drilling I taught her the knack of hooking and hitting straight. I also gave her a lot of training to harden her body muscles, which was her weak spot.
Well, the big Swede took to it like a duck takes to water, and after I'd explained each simple move upwards of a thousand times, she'd understand it and apply it and she wouldn't forget. Like lots of airheads, she was slow to learn, but once she had learned, she remembered what she'd learned. And her great size and strength was a big asset.
Billie O'Brien says, "Steph, you're trainin' the big sap to take your title away from you." But I merely laughed with great merriment at the idea.
Ingrid had a wallop like a mule's kick in either hand, and when she learned to use it, she was dangerous to any man or woman. She was pretty tough, too, or got so before I got through with her. She wasn't very fast, and I taught her a kind of deep defensive crouch like Jeffries used. She took to it natural and developed a surprising left for the body. After six months of hard work on her, I felt sure that she could lick the average alley-fighter easy. And about this time we was cruising Baltic waters and headed for Stockholm.
As we approached her native heath, Ingrid grew impatient and restless. She had a lot more self-confidence now and she craved another chance at Olga, her demon rival. Ingrid wasn't just a big unwieldy blond bimbo no more. Constant sparring with me and Billie O'Brien had taught her how to handle herself and how to use her bulk and strength. A few days outa Stockholm she had a row with Mushy Hansen, which was 156 pounds of fighting woman, and she knocked the Dane so cold it took us a hour and a half to bring her to.
Well, that cheered Ingrid up considerable and when we docked, she said to me: "Aye go see Sven, my man, and find out if Olga bean in. She bean hang out at da Fisherman's Tavern. Aye go past with Sven and she come out and yump on me, like usual. Only diss time aye lick her."
Well, at the appointed time me and Billie and Mushy was loafing around the Fisherman's Tavern, a kind of bar where a lot of tough Swedish fishermen hung out and they was more’n happy to have our company and buy us drink. Pretty soon, along come Ingrid.
She had her man with her, all right, a fine, big blonde man- one of these tall, strapping men. Looked like one of these here Vikings you read about which rampaged around in old times, licking everybody. He had clear sky blue eyes, which I reckon goes with that kind of nature of being a Swede. He was so handsome too I was plumb astounded as to what he seen in an airhead Ingrid, but then I remember those two boulders Ingrid carried on her chest. Men is that way, they fall for the dubs and pass up the real prizes--like me, for instance.
Sven looked kind of worried just now and as they neared the Tavern, he cast a apprehensive eye that way. Well, they was abreast of the door when a kind of irritated roar sounded from within and out bulged what could of been nobody but Olga the Menace, herself, in person.
THERE WAS A woman for you! She was fully as tall as Ingrid, though not as heavy. Tall, lithe and powerful she was, like a big, blond tiger. She was so pretty I could easily see why Sven hesitated between her and Ingrid- they were practically twins! Olga looked like one of these here Swiss misses, slender yet well-built girls with a set of knockers overflowing with health and vitality. But she had a hard, cruel eye, which I reckon goes with that kind of nature.
She had some of the other waitresses with her, but they stayed back in the doorway while she swaggered out and stopped square in front of Ingrid. She had a most contemptuous sneer and she said something which of course I couldn't understand, but as Mushy later translated the conversation to me, I'll give it like Mushy told to me and Billie.
"Well, well," said Olga, "looking for another licking, eh, Sis? Your deep sea girlfriend is back in port looking for her usual trouncing, eh, Sven?"
Now that was a revoltin’ development, not only was Olga Igrid’s rival, but her sister to boot.
"Olga, please," said Sven, frightened. "Don't fight with your sister, please!"
"I warned you what would happen to her," roared Olga, "if you went out with her-"
At this moment Ingrid, who had said nothing, shocked her bold rival by growling: "Too much talk; put up your hands!"
Olga, though surprised, immediately did so, and cut Ingrid’s lip with a flashing straight left before the big girl could get in position. Sven screamed for them to stop half-heartedly as no man doesn’t love a cat fight and the battle was on. Olga had learned boxing some place, and was one of the fastest women for her size I ever seen. For the first few seconds she plastered Ingrid plenty, but from the way the big bimbo hunched her shoulders and surged in, I had no doubt about the outcome.
Ingrid dropped into the deep, defensive crouch I'd taught her, and I saw Olga was puzzled. She herself fought in the straight-up English sparring position and this was the first time she'd ever met a woman who fought American style, I could see. With Ingrid’s crouch protecting her body and her big right arm curved around her jaw, all Olga could see to hit was her eyes glaring over the arm.
She battered away futilely at Ingrid’s big blond head, doing no damage whatever, and then Ingrid waded in and drove her ponderous left to the wrist in Olga's midriff. Olga gasped, went white, swayed and shook like a leaf. She sure couldn't take it there and I yelled for Ingrid to hit her again in the same place, but the big dumbbell tried a heavy swing for the jaw, half straightening out of her crouch as she swung and Olga ducked and staggered her with a sizzling right to the ear. Ingrid immediately went back into her shell and planted another battering-ram left to Olga's tit.
Olga broke ground gasping and her knees trembling, but Ingrid kept right on top of her in her plodding sort of way. Olga jarred her with a dying-effort swing to the jaw, but them months of punching had toughened Ingrid and the big blond shook her head and leaned on a right to the ribs. That finished Olga; her knees gave way and she started falling, grabbing feebly at Ingrid as she done so. But Ingrid, with one of the few laughs I ever heard her give, smothered her sister’s face in those big hooters of hers and till Olga slumped to the ground. Ingrid got on top of her sister with a schoolgirl, and slapped her beaten sibling a few times for good measure.
A LOW RUMBLE of fury warned us and we turned to see Olga's amazed but wrathful cronies surging towards the victor. But me and Billie and Mushy and Mike kind of drifted in between and at the sight of three hard-eyed American swabs and a harder-eyed Irish bulldog, they stopped short and signified their intention of merely taking Olga into the Tavern and bringing her to.
At this Ingrid, grinning placidly got up turning to Sven with open arms, and got the shock of her life. Instead of falling on to her heaving bosom, Sven, who had stood there like he was froze, woke up all at once and bust into a perfect torrent of speech. I would of gave a lot to understand it. Ingrid stood gaping with her mouth wide open and even the rescue party which had picked up Olga, stood listening. Then with one grand burst of oratory, he handed Ingrid a full-armed, open-handed slap that cracked like a bull-whip, that had the tough girl busting into tears, Sven didn’t care or notice, he went forward to help with Olga. They vanished inside the tavern.
"What'd he say? What's the idea?" I asked, burnt up with curiosity.
"He say he bean through with me," Ingrid answered dazedly. "He say aye bean a bitch. He say he don't want to see me no more."
"Well, keel-haul me," said I profanely. "Can ya beat that? First he wouldn't choose Ingrid because she got licked by Olga all the time; now he won't have her because she licked Olga."
"Never mind, old timer," said Billie, slapping the dejected Ingrid on the back. "Anyway, you licked Olga to a fare-you-well. Come along, and we'll buy you a drink."
But Ingrid just shook her head sullen-like and moped off by herself; so after arguing with her unsuccessfully, me and Billie and Mushy betook ourselves to a place where we could 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 Ingrid.
"I don't savvy fellers," I said. "If he gives Ingrid the bounce for beatin' up Olga, why’d he give Olga the bounce long ago for beatin' up Ingrid so much?"
"It's Olga he really loves," said Mushy.
"Maybe," said Billie. "And maybe she's just persistent. But men are kind-hearted protectors. They pities a poor boob which has just got punched in the nose, and as long as Ingrid was gettin' licked all the time, she got all his love and protection. But now his pity and affections is transferred to Olga, naturally."
Well, we didn't see no more of Ingrid till kind of late that night, when in come one of our square-head ship-mates named Fritz to the bar where me and Billie and Mushy was, and he said: "Steph, Ingrid she say maybe you come down to a place on Hjolmer Street; she got something to show you."
"Now what could that Swede want now?" said Billie 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 barbells, dumbbells, kettle bells--in fact, all the lifting weights you could 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 Ingrid, stripped down to her pink panties and garters with her hands taped.
"Who you goin' to fight, Ingrid?" I asked curiously.
She scowled slightly, flexed her mighty arms kind of embarrassed like, swelled out her massive 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 bean no yoke," she answered stolidly. "Mine friend Frigga own diss gym and teach rastlin' and weight liftin'. She bean let us fight here."
Frigga, a stocky Swede with the massive tits and belly of an soon to be mother, gave me a kind of apologetic look, but I glared at her.
"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 Olga? You ungrateful--"
"Aye ain't got no grudge for you, Steph," the big blond bimbo answered placidly. "But aye tank aye like be champion of di Sea Girl aye got to lick you to be it, ain't it? Sure!"
Billie and Mushy was looking at me expectantly, but I was all at sea. After you've worked six months teaching a girl your trade and built her up and made something outa her, you don't want to undo it all by rocking her to sleep.
"Why're you so set on bein' champ of the Sea Girl?" I asked irritably.
"Well," said the overgrown cow, "aye tank aye lick you and then aye can lick Olga, and Sven he like me. But aye lick Olga, and Sven he give me di gate. Diss bean your fault, for teachin’ me to lick Olga. But aye ain't blame you. Aye like you fine, Steph, but now aye tank aye be champ of di Sea Girl. Aye ain't got no man no more, so aye got to be something. Aye lick Olga 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 boob floozy!" I snarled in wrathful perplexity.
"Then aye fight you on the street or the fo'c's'le or wherever aye meet you," she 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 blond-headed cow!" 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 made for a boy half my age which Frigga dragged out of somewhere for me that clung to my full hips and ass. We was donning the gloves a set lighter than the standard weight, which Frigga had probably got as a present from somebody, Ingrid’s were black, mine were red like my tight little shorts. We agreed on Billie as referee, but Ingrid being afraid of Mike, made me agree to have Mushy hold her, though I assured her Mike wouldn't interfere in a glove fight. There 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 Ingrid was. Six feet tall-165 pounds--all bone and muscle. She towered over me like a giant, and I musta looked kinda small beside her, though I'm five feet and nine inches tall and weigh 130 pounds. Under her white skin the great muscles rolled and billowed like flexible iron, and her chest looked more like to mountians than a woman's. At 36-24-37 with flaming red hair I like to think I am a knockout in more ways than one, but I felt like a little school girl standing next to Ingrid’s knockers. 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 had no worries about Ingrid, but I'd got over being mad at her and I seen her point of view. Ingrid wasn't sore at me, or nothing. She just wanted to be champ of her ship, which was a natural wish. Since her man gave her the air, she wanted to more'n ever to kind of soothe her wounded vanity, as they say.
No, I cooled down and kind of sympathized with Ingrid’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 bitch and absolutely in the wrong.
As we come together, Ingrid said: "No rounds, Steph; we fight to di finish, yes?"
"All right," I said with very little enthusiasm. "But, Ingrid, for the last time- have you just got to fight me?"
His reply was a left which she shot for my jaw so sudden like I just barely managed to slip it. I come back with a slashing right which she blocked, clumsy but effective. She then dropped into the deep crouch I'd taught her and rammed her left for my tits. But I knew the counter to that, having seen pictures of the second Fitzsimmons-Jeffries riot. I stepped around and inside her ramming left, slapping a left uppercut inside the crook of her right arm, to her jaw, cracking her teeth together and rocking her head up and back for a right hook which I opened a gash on her temple with.
She give a deafening roar and immediately abandoned her 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. Ingrid didn't rush wide open, flailing wild, like she used to. She come plunging in, bunched in a compact bulk of iron muscles and fighting fury; she hooked and hit straight, and she kept her chin clamped down on her perfect chest and her shoulders hunched to guard it, half crouching to protect her body. Even the rudiments of boxing science she'd learned, coupled with her enormous size and strength made her plenty formidable to any man much less a dame like me.
I don't know how to tin-can and back pedal. If Jeffries hisself was to rush me, all I'd know to do would be to stand up to him and trade punches until I went out cold. I met Ingrid with a right smash that was high, but stopped her in her tracks. Blood spattered and she swayed like a big tree about to crash, but before I could follow up, she plunged in again, hitting with both hands. She hit and she hit and she hit!
She threw both hands as fast as she could drive one after the other and every blow had all her weight behind it. Outa the depths of her fighting fit she'd conjured up amazing speed. It happens sometimes. I never seen a woman her size hit that fast before or since. It was just like being in a rain of sledge-hammers that never quit coming. All I could see was her glaring eyes, her big tits rocking as she hit and a perfect whirlwind of big glove-covered clubs.
She wasn't timing or aiming much--hitting too fast for that. But even when she landed glancing-like, she shook me, with that advantage of fourty pounds. And she landed solid too often to suit me. Try as I would, I couldn't get in a solid smash to the tit, or on the jaw. She kept her head down, and my vicious uppercuts merely glanced off her face, too high to do much good. Black and blue bruises showed on her ribs and shoulders, but her awkward half crouch kept her vitals protected.
It's mighty hard to hammer an Amazon like her out of position- especially when you're trying to keep her from tearing off your head at the same time. I bored in close, letting Ingrid’s blows go around my neck while I blasted away with both hands. No, there was little science used on either side. It was mostly a wild exchange of sledge-hammer wallops from to she-devils.
In one of our rare clinches, Ingrid lifted me off my feet and forced my face into those big sweaty tits of her, where I choked on the them and the blood that was pouring out my nose by this point in the fight. This made Billie, as referee, very mad at Ingrid and she cussed her and kicked her heartily in the pants, so the big bitch let me go.
I WAS LANDING the most blows and they rocked Ingrid from stem to stern, but they wasn't vital ones. Already her face was like a side beef. One eye was closed, her lips were pulped and her nose was bleeding; her left side was raw, but, if anything, she seemed to be getting stronger. My training had toughened her a lot more than I'd realized!
BLAMA! glancing slam on my jaw made me see plenty of stars. WHAM! Her right met the side of my head and I shot back half-way across the room to crash into the wall. Long ago we'd got off the canvas; we was fighting all over the joint.
Ingrid was after me like a mad bull, and I braced myself and stopped her in her tracks with a left hook that ripped her ear loose and made her knees sag for a second. But the Swede had worked herself into one of them berserk rages where you got to mighty near kill a woman to stop her. Her right, curving up from her hip, banged solid on my temple and I thought for a second my skull was caved in like an egg-shell. Blood gushed down my neck when she drew her glove back, and, desperate, I hooked my right to her body with everything I had behind it. I reckon that was when I cracked her rib, because I heard something snap and she kind of grunted.
Both of us was terrible looking by this time and kind of in a dream like, I saw Frigga wringing her hands and begging Billie and Mushy and Fritz to stop it--I reckon she'd never saw a real glove battle before and it was so different from lifting weights! Naturally, they was goggle-eyed and yelling themselves deaf and dumb, paid no attention to her at all, and so in a second Frigga turned and run out into the street like she was going for the cops.
But I paid no heed. For the first time in many a day I was fighting with my back to the wall against one of my own crew. Ingrid was inhuman--it was like fighting a bull or an elephant. She was landing solid now, and even if those blows was clumsy, with 174 pounds of crazy Swede behind them, they was like the blows of a pile-driver.
She knew only one kind of footwork--going forward. And she kept plunging and hitting, plunging and hitting till the world was blind and red. I shook my head and the blood flew like spray. The sheer weight of her plunges hurtled me in spite of myself. Once more I tried to rock her head up for a solid shot to the jaw. My left uppercut split her lips and rattled her teeth, but her bowed neck was like iron. In desperation I banged her square on the side of the head where her skull was hardest.
Blood spurted like I'd hit her with a hand spike, and she swayed drunkenly--then she dropped into a deep crouch and shot her left to my midriff with all her weight behind it. Jesus! It was so unexpected I couldn't get away from it. I was standing nearly upright and that huge fist sank into my solar-plexus till I felt it banged against my spine. I dropped like a sack and writhed on the floor like a snake with a busted back, fighting for air. Billie said later I was purple in the face.
Like I was looking through a thick fog, I seen Billie, dazed and white-faced, counting over me. I dunno how I got up again. I was sick--I thought I was dying. But Ingrid was standing right over me, and looking up at her, a lot of thoughts surged through my numbed and battered brain in a kind of flash.
The new champeen of the Sea Girl, I thought, after all these years I've held my title against all comers. After all the women I've fought and licked to hold the only title I got. All the cruel punishment I've took, all the blood I've spilt, now I lose my only title to this blond cow that I've licked half a dozen times. Like a dream it all come back-the dim-lighted, smelly, dingy forecastle, the yelling, cursing seamen--and me in the middle of it all-the bully of the forecastle. And now-never more to defend my title-never to hear folks along the docks say: "That's Stephanie Costigan, champ of the toughest ship afloat!"
WITH A KIND of gasping sob, I grabbed Ingrid’s legs and climbed up, up, till I was on my feet, leaning against her chest to chest, till she shook me off and smashed me down like she was driving a nail into the floor. I reeled up just as Billie began to count, and this time I ducked Ingrid’s swing and clinched her with a grip even she couldn't break.
And as I held on and drew in air in great racking gasps, I looked over her straining shoulder and seen Frigga come rushing in through the door with a white-faced man behind her-Sven. But I was too near out to even realize that Ingrid’s ex-man was there. Ingrid pushed me away finally and dropped me once more with a punch that was more a push than anything else. This time I took the count of nine, resting, as my incredible vitality, the wonder of many the sporting scribe, began to assert itself.
I rose suddenly and beat Ingrid to the punch with a wild right that smashed her nose. Like most sluggers, I never lose my punch, no matter how badly beaten I am. I'm dangerous right to the last second, as better women than Ingrid Larson has found out. Ingrid wasn't going so strong herself as she had been. She moved stiff and mechanical and swung her arms awkwardly, like they was dead. She walked in stolidly and smashed a club-like right to my face. Blood spattered and I went back on my heels, but surged in and ripped my right tit the tit, landing square there on the nipple.
Another right smashed full on Ingrid’s already battered mouth, and, spitting out a mix of blood and spit, she crashed a flailing left to my body, which I distinctly felt bend my ribs to the breaking point. I ripped a left to her temple, and she flattened my ear with a swinging right, rocking drunkenly like a tall ship in the Trades with all sails set. Another right glanced offa the top of my head as I ducked and for the first time I seen her unguarded jaw as she loomed above me where I crouched.
I straightened, crashing my right from the hip, with every ounce of my weight behind it, and all the drive they was in leg, waist, shoulder and arm. I landed solid on the button with a jolt that burst my glove and numbed my whole arm-I heard a scream-I seen Ingrid’s eyes go blank-I seen her sway like a falling mast--I seen her pitching forward- BANG! The lights went out.
I WAS PROPPED up in a chair and Billie was sloshing me with water. I looked around at the dingy gym; then I remember. A queer, sad, cold feeling come over me. I felt old and worn out. After all, I wasn't a girl no more. All the hard, bitter years of fighting the sea and fighting women come over me and settled like a cold cloud on my shoulders. All the life kind of went out of me.
"Believe me, Steph," said Billie, slapping at me with her towel, "that fight sure set Ingrid solid with Sven. Right now he's weepin' over her busted nose and black eye and the like, and huggin' her and kissin' her and vowin' everlastin' love. I knew I was right all the time. Frigga run after him to get him to stop the bout. Gosh, the Marines couldn't a stopped it! Mushy clean chawed Mike's collar in two, she was that excited! Say, would you uh thought a slob like Ingrid coulda made the fightin' woman she is in six months?"
"Yeah," I said listlessly, scratching Mike's ear as he licked my hand. "Well, she had it comin'. She worked hard enough. And she was lucky havin' somebody to teach her. All I know, I learned for myself in cruel hard battles. But, Billie, I can't stay on the Sea Girl now; I just can't get used to bein' just a contender on a ship where I was champeen."
Billie dropped her towel and glared at me: "What you talkin' about?"
"Why, Ingrid’s the new champ of the Sea Girl, lickin' me this way. Strange, what a come-back she made just as I thought she was goin' down."
"You're clean crazy!" snorted Billie. "By golly, a rap on the dome has a funny effect on some skates. Ingrid’s just now comin' to. Mushy and Fritz and Frigga has been sloshin' her with water for ten minutes. You knocked her stiff as a wedge with that last right hook."
I come erect with a bound! "What? Then I licked Ingrid? I'm still champion? But if she didn't knock me out, who did?"
Billie grinned. "Don't you know no woman can hit you hard enough with her fist to knock you out? Swedish boy is impulsive. Sven done that--with an iron dumb-bell!"
---
THE END
