Black Davis jumped with his heavy sea-boots full upon the ribs of the gross German, who lay gasping in the scuppers, and, strange to say, the result was nothing worse than a bad bruise.
But the sea is a hard master, and its followers must needs be tough to a degree to survive. Life on a wind-jammer soon weeds out the weaklings, who leave the lists worn out, broken, and spent.
Jack and Broncho tried their best to avoid being drawn into the vortex of the battle, but were suddenly confronted by the bosun as they prowled cautiously round the midshiphouse.
"What the devil are you two doing? Skulking, hey? Jump forrard an' help overhaul that port chain."
So back they had to go into the midst of the fray, where the two mates, surrounded by a yelling crowd, were fairly making things hum.
"Reg'lar New Orleans style o' towin' out!" gasped the cockney to Jack, as he skipped round the fore-hatch windlass to avoid the boot of Black Davis, whose eyes gleamed like those of a wild beast through blood and matted hair.
"Ho! ye murtherin' baste, ye, I have ye now," cried Pat with a wild Irish yell, and he sprang full on the mate from the top of the house, whence he had climbed by the iron ladder.
Down went the pair of them for the second time, and when the mate gained his feet one eye was closed, whilst Pat was spitting blood and teeth out of his capacious mouth.
As Jack bent down to lay hold of the chain, Barker, the second mate, sprang upon him, screeching venomously.