CHAPTER XIV MR. CRAGTHORPE IS MORE THAN TROUBLESOME
Luckily, at that moment, the Florida boy turned about, glancing into the engine room.
What he saw made Jeff stare, then gasp. Both operations were over in the space of a second.
"Here, you infernal rascal!" shouted Jeff. "Stop it!"
Nor did he content himself with that startled roar. The Florida boy carried his fighting pluck with him at all times.
Though Cragthorpe was about half as large again as the young assistant engineer, Randolph made a direct spring for him.
Cragthorpe didn't have time to complete his mischief to the engine just then.
Instead, he swung around, aiming the wrench at Jeff's head. But young Randolph halted, instantly picked up another wrench, and sent it whizzing.
Boiling with wrath, the Florida boy didn't aim particularly. He didn't care where his wrench landed, provided that it served the purpose.
The flying missile struck hard against the knuckles of Cragthorpe's right hand, forcing him to let his own weapon drop.
Then Jeff fairly flew at the larger stranger.
"You won't play any tricks while I'm here on watch," panted Jeff Randolph, as he clinched with his adversary. So impetuous was the Florida boy's assault that he carried Cragthorpe down to the floor.
There, locked in each other's arms, they rolled and fought. The pit in which the motors stood was railed off, preventing their fighting their way into the moving machinery.
Both combatants displayed a good deal of staying power. For the first sixty seconds they fought without either seeming to gain any advantage. It was a grim, lonely duel, in which neither could accept less than complete victory.
No word was spoken. Neither cared to waste breath in speech. Jeff fought for a strangle hold as his best chance. Cragthorpe tried to get in a blow between the boy's eyes.
Once Randolph got briefly on top, but the stranger rolled over on him, and then the fighting went on more furiously than ever.
However, the stranger's superior weight and a considerable advantage in muscle soon told over the Florida boy's clear, savage grit. Though he would not yield an inch, Jeff had to admit to himself that he could not hope to hold out much longer.
After another sixty seconds of it, during which the Florida boy was breathing sorely, Cragthorpe managed to free one hand. Raising the clenched fist with the swiftness of lightning, he brought that fist down, aiming the blow to land on Jeff's forehead just above his eyes.
The blow fell, though glancingly. Now there came a quick step behind the stranger.
With a brutal oath, Cragthorpe sprang up to confront the burning glance of Captain Tom Halstead.
Halstead had just come on deck again, after his nap. Learning from Ab about the stranger, and quick to suspect, under such circumstances, the young motor boat skipper had hastened below.
"Caught you, you sneak, didn't I?" jeered Tom, harshly, dodging back and shedding his deck ulster with almost a single motion.
Then the young captain of the "Panther" threw himself on guard. Not an instant too soon, for Cragthorpe had sprung forward to grapple with him.
The two fists of the young skipper, moving with lightning-like rapidity, caused Cragthorpe to retreat, throwing up his own hands as soon as he saw it was to be a game of fisticuffs.
As Tom crouched low, Cragthorpe attempted to leap in over his guard. It was good tactics for one three inches taller. Yet Halstead was no novice in boxing. He threw up his left on guard, holding back his assailant, then tried to cut under and up with his right. He landed, though not with much force, against Cragthorpe's ribs. It was enough to drive the older combatant back until he could alter his guard.
In the meantime, Jeff lay on the floor, further forward in the engine room. The Florida boy had not wholly lost consciousness, but he was half-dazed, seeking to remember what had happened.
Now, at it again went Halstead and his enemy, each sparring cautiously, each alternately retreating or forcing the other all around the open part of the engine room.
Once Cragthorpe caught Tom near the railing, and let drive hard with both fists, seeking to push the young skipper over the railing and in among the moving machinery.
But Tom dodged artfully as he parried and struck back, and in an instant more was away from his perilous position.
Not once did the young skipper think of calling upon Cragthorpe to quit it and surrender. Halstead knew the fellow was there for too serious business to allow himself to be talked to a standstill.
At last, as Cragthorpe retreated past him, almost stepping on the young assistant engineer's face, Jeff rallied his senses enough to recall what had happened.
For a few moments Tom Halstead cleverly fought his opponent forward, putting up effective parries and raining in his blows so fast that Cragthorpe had all he could do to save himself from being floored.
In those few moments Jeff managed to crawl past both, and down toward the engine room door.
The tide of battle turned, now, briefly at least. Cragthorpe, stung to greater fury by a glancing blow on the end of his nose, hurled himself into the fray with so much added energy that Halstead was compelled to give ground.
"Jeff, can you understand me!" panted Tom, as he retreated, an inch at a time, keeping his fists moving fast.
"Y-yes," stammered the Florida boy, still a bit dazed.
"Then pass the word for help, like a flash!"
But Jeff lingered by the doorway, holding to the frame for support. Only one thing was plain in the Florida boy's mind—that running away wasn't in his line.
"A-a-h!" vented Cragthorpe, gleefully. He had suddenly closed in quickly on Halstead, aiming a blow that it seemed must send the young captain to the floor senseless.
And so it would have done—only Tom wasn't there. He ducked low, passing under Cragthorpe's extended arm, and came up behind him, forcing the stranger to wheel about.
That left the rascal with his back turned to the Florida boy.
Jeff's mind was becoming a bit clearer every instant. Now he left the doorway, gliding forward.
Tom saw Jeff's new move, and half-guessed the meaning of it. By clever sparring the young skipper held Cragthorpe just where he stood, until——
Jeff leaped upon the big stranger from behind. He wound his arms around Cragthorpe's throat, then held on with all the strength he could summon.
Another oath escaped the wretch's lips. It was stopped by Halstead's right fist landing across his mouth.
"This is a gentleman's boat—no profanity allowed," mocked Tom, sending in another blow that struck his man in the region of the belt, causing him to double up in torment.
Two more blows Tom drove in. Cragthorpe sank to the floor.
"Let go of him, Jeff. I can handle him," ordered Captain Tom. "Get to the speaking tube and direct Mr. Costigan to send the extra deckhand down here on the jump."
Cragthorpe lay on the floor. The fight was not by any means driven out of him, but the wind was, for the moment, at least. Then steps were heard. Mr. Costigan himself came in, followed by the extra deck-hand, for Ab had relieved the third mate on the bridge.
"So that's what our new gentleman has been doing, is it, sir?" demanded Mr. Costigan, his Irish quickness enabling him to guess much at the first glance.
"Have you handcuffs with you, Mr. Costigan?" asked Tom.
"I have, sir."
"Then put them on this fellow."
With a right good will Mr. Costigan and the sailor rolled Cragthorpe over, not very gently at that, and forced his wrists together, manacling the wretch. Then they dragged him to his feet.
"Jupiter!" muttered Tom, staring hard. "I've seen this fellow somewhere before. And now I have it! By Jove, he's the gallant fellow I had to knock from the observation platform on the Overland Mail!"
"You needn't be quite so glad. We haven't quite evened our account yet," snarled the fellow. "But I'm not the man you think I am."
"Do you deny you're the fellow I struck on the observation platform of a car of the Overland Mail the other day?" Tom Halstead snorted.
"I can't be. I've just come from Auckland," leered the fellow.
"We picked him up from a small boat that bore the name of the liner, 'Dolbear,'" interjected Mr. Costigan. "The 'Dolbear' is due about now from Auckland."
"Then the boat was painted, as to her name, on board the 'Victor,'" said Tom. "I understand we ran behind her a bit at one time this afternoon."
"Yes, sir."
"It's from the 'Victor' this fellow came, then, boat and all," declared Captain Halstead, positively. "Now, bring the fellow up on deck and let everyone have a look at him."
As it was time to call the new watch up, anyway, this was now done. Cragthorpe tried to make a fight against being taken to the deck, but, manacled as he was, he could put up no effective resistance.
The cabin passengers, too, were called. Tom and Jeff stated the case against the fellow.
"Of course you're justified in locking this man up in the brig, if there is one aboard," observed Mr. Jephson.
"Yes; there's a brig on board," Tom nodded, "and that's where a man goes after trying to tamper with our engines on a chase like this."
The "brig" is a ship's prison. On the "Panther" it was a small room, not more than five by seven feet, with two berths and two stools in it. The door was an iron grating. Even on a yacht a brig is often needed, as a place of confinement for a drunken or crazy sailor.
Dick Davis ascended to the bridge to stand the new watch.
"Take the fellow to the brig, Mr. Costigan, and see that he's securely locked in. Collins, see that the man gets his meals three times a day."
"I'll make you mighty sorry for this, you boy skipper!" growled Cragthorpe, as he was led away.
"That's the fellow I knocked from the train, isn't it, Joe?" demanded Halstead, turning to his chum.
"He's not dressed as well, and he has a few days' growth of beard on his face, but I'm positive he's the same fellow," answered Joe Dawson, quietly.