“I mean that I am not a crazy fool, if you are. I don’t care to go to the jug for this piece of business. Here you, Merriwell, take this knife and cut those ropes that hold your feet.”
With his free hand Moran produced a jackknife, which he quickly passed to Dick, who opened it and freed his feet with a single slash at the ropes.
“Now, I think we’re pretty near good for this whole drunken gang,” said Moran. “I’ve had a little booze to-night myself, but I have some sense left.”
“You traitor!” palpitated Arlington; and then, with a sudden lurch, he staggered toward the companionway.
Dick had closed the heavy jackknife given him by Moran, but he still held it in his hand. As Arlington reeled to one side Merriwell saw crouching, just beyond the cabin door, a dark-faced man, whose beady eyes glittered in a deadly manner and whose hand clutched the haft of a knife.
It was Tony!
Suddenly the Italian sprang forward, for Arlington had stopped a few feet away, and his back was toward the door. The glittering knife was lifted for a murderous blow.
Whiz!—something flew through the air and struck Tony fairly between the eyes.
It was the heavy jackknife, which Dick had thrown at the Italian. Tony was knocked backward and dazed for a moment. The knife fell from his hand and struck, point first, in the floor, where it stood quivering.
Filled with sudden horror, for all of his intoxicated condition, Arlington staggered aside and stood staring at the Italian.