Veranda blinking in the brightness of the sun and the thunder of the

crowd. Which is the Portuguese? whispered Sean, he needn't have asked.

The man stood out like a gorilla in a cage of monkeys. A shaggy coating

of hair began on his shoulders and continued down his back and chest,

completely hiding his nipples and exaggerating the bulge of his enormous

belly.

The crowd opened a path for Sean and Duff and they walked along it to

the ring. Hands slapped Sean's back but the well-wishes were drowned in

the churning sea of sound. Jock Heyns was the referee, he helped Sean

through the ropes and ran his hands over his pockets. Just checking he

apologized. We don't want any scrap iron in the ring. Then he beckoned

to a tall, brown-faced fellow who was leaning on the ropes chewing

tobacco. This is Mr Barnard our weighing steward. Well, what do you

say, Gideon? The steward hosed a little juice from the side of his

mouth. Two hundred and ten. Thank you Jock held up his hands and after

a few minutes was rewarded with a comparative silence. Ladies and

Gentlemen. -Vho you talking to, Guvnor?

We are privileged to have with us today, Mr Sean Courtney. Wake up,

Boet, he's been with us for months. The heavyweight champion of the

Republic. Why not make it the world, cock, he's got just as much right

to that title. Who will fight six bouts , if it lasts that long. - for

his title and a purse of fifty pounds each.

Sustained cheering. -The first challenger, at two hundred and ten pounds

Mr Anthony -'Hold on, Sean shouted, who says he's first?

lock Heyns had taken a deep breath to bellow the name.

He let it escape with a hiss. It was arranged by Mr du Toit.

If I fight them, then I pick them, I want the Port. .

Duff's hand whipped over Sean's mouth and his whisper was desperate.

Don't be a bloody fool, take the easy ones first. Use your head, we

aren't doing this for fun, we're trying to finance a mine, remember?

Sean clawed Duff's hand off his mouth. I want the Portuguese, he

shouted. He's joking, Duff assured the crowd, then turned on Sean

fiercely. Are you mad? That dago's a man-eater, we're fifty pounds

poorer before you start! I want the Portuguese, repeated Sean with all

the logic of a small boy picking the most expensive toy in the shop.

Let him have the dago, shouted the gentlemen on the hotel roof and Jock

Heyns eyed them nervously; it was clear that they were about to add a

few more bottles to the argument. All right, he agreed hastily. The

first challenger, at he glanced at Barnard and repeated after him, two

hundred and fifty-five pounds, Mr Felezardo da Silva Fernandes. In a

storm of hoots and applause the Portuguese waddled down off the veranda

and into the ring. Sean had seen Candy at the dining-room window and he

waved to her.

She blew him a two-handed kiss and at that instant Trevor Heyns, the

timekeeper, hit the bucket which served as a gong and Sean heard Duff's

warning shout.

Instinctively he started to duck. There was a flash of lightning inside

his skull and he found himself sitting in amongst the legs of the first

line of spectators. The bastard King hit me, Sean complained loudly. He

shook his head and was surprised to find it still attached to his body.

Someone poured a glass of beer over him and it steadied him. He felt

his anger flaming up through his body.

Six, counted Jock Heyns.

The Portuguese was standing at the ropes. Come back, Leetle Sheet, I

hal some more for you, not half.

Sean's anger jumped in his throat. Seven, eight.

Sean gathered his legs under him. I kiss your mother. Fernandes

puckered his lips and smacked them. I love your sister, like this. He

demonstrated graphically.

Sean charged. With the full weight of his run behind it, his fist

thudded into the Portuguese's mouth, then the ropes caught Sean and

catapulted him back into the crowd once more.

You weren't even in the ring, how could you hit him?

protested one of the spectators who had broken Sean's fall. He had

money on Fernandes.

Like this! I Sean demonstrated. The man sat down heavily and had

nothing further to say. Sean hurdled the ropes.

lock Heyns was halfway through his second count when Sean interrupted

him by lifting the reclining Portuguese to his feet, using the tangled

bush of his hair as a handle.

He balanced the man on his unsteady legs and hit himOne, two, three.

resignedly Jock Heyns began his third count, this time he managed to

reach ten.

There was a howl of protest from the crowd and Jock Heyns struggled to

make himself heard above it. Does anyone want to lodge a formal

objection?