In vain the creature writhed and twisted; in vain he clawed and tore at the engineer. Try as he would, he could not unloose that vice-like grip.
He gnashed his yellow fangs in a paroxysm of impotent fury, but, for the moment, Wilson seemed possessed of the strength of a giant.
Letting the murder lust within him have full sway, the lad beat his enemy’s head to a shapeless pulp against the stones of the beach.
Only when all motion of the writhing body had ceased for ever did Wilson relax his grip; then, as he staggered to his feet, a red mist swam before his eyes, and he fell, swooning, across the corpse of his hideous opponent.
When consciousness returned he found the inventor kneeling by his side, endeavouring to staunch the gaping wound in his arm, from which he had withdrawn the knife.
“That was a narrow shave,” he said, as Wilson attempted to sit up.
“It was,” the engineer returned; “he almost had me, the brute!” and he shuddered.
Rising with the help of his friend, he moved down the beach and got aboard.
“Now for your wound,” Garth said, and, ripping up the sleeve of Wilson’s jacket, he skilfully dressed and bandaged the gash.
“Where are Haverly and Seymour?” he questioned, when the engineer was feeling somewhat more comfortable.