It was his undoing. Jack Symonds was ready; and, like some splendid machine, touched off in an instant, he sprang through the air and crashed heavily upon Humbolt.
Taken by surprise, Tiger's grip upon his weapon naturally relaxed, and the impact sent it flying a dozen feet away. But he was too strong, too solid, to go to the earth. He stood and wrestled furiously. Jack grabbed the man's arms and tried to prevent him from getting in a blow, for he had seen the effect of Humbolt's hitting, and had no desire to be hit himself.
The man was very strong, a very pocket Hercules. And Jack, athletic as he was, felt himself gradually being overmastered. The thick, short arms struggled in his hold; one got free, and Jack felt it drawn back, and waited, heart in mouth, for the sickening thump—but it never came.
Instead, Humbolt staggered, gave a groan, and Jack saw that he was falling. Hastily he glanced up and saw Fane surveying his cricket-stump ruefully.
"I'm sorry I hit from behind," the latter said, "but the beggar was out to spifflicate you. I banged him on the head."
"Good man—don't apologize," said Jack, with immense cheerfulness. "Come on—cut!"
Even as Jack jumped away, Humbolt, dazed as he was, made a blind grab at his legs. The man's tenacity was admirable; he was possessed of the instincts of a bulldog-ant. And, seeing his late captives, escaping, he roared out at the full pitch of his lungs.
"Lazare! Quick! Help! Lazare!"
So Lazare was somewhere handy, then! Or was it only a bluff? Bluff or not, they raced madly for the skiff, calling out to Silver as they ran; and after a brief, rocky journey, came upon the shingle-beach and the boat.
Everything worked with silken smoothness. The four boys packed into the boat, taking an oar each, while Patch made ready to steer.