Done in his bunk. Jim stepped down amongst the laughing men in his shirt,
and selecting the one whose laugh was loudest and most hearty, he struck
him an open-handed blow that drove him like a log along the floor. There
was little noise. A narrow 'ring' was improvised, two or three bits of
candle were found to help the sooty ship's lantern, and the men fought as
they stood.

Jim's opponent was Phil Ryan, a smart young sailor, six or seven years
his senior. The fight was short but lively, and the onlookers had not one
word of comment to offer after the first round. The men gazed at Done
with a ludicrous expression of stupid reproach. He had deceived, betrayed
them; he had posed as a quiet, harmless man, with the manners of an
aristocrat, when he might have been ship's champion at any moment by
merely putting up his hands.

Phil went down five times. The fifth time he remained seated, gazing
straight before him, with one sad, meditative eye, and another that
looked as if it could never be of any use as an eye again.

'Get up, Ryan!' urged Phil's second.

Phil did not move; he gave no indication of having heard.

'Ryan, get up, man!' The second prompted him with his toe.

'Meanin' me?' said the vanquished.

'To be sure. Be a man! Get up and face him.'

'Divil a fear o' me!' said Ryan. 'I'm never goin' to get up agin till you