Bob, and the man he was holding, fell to the deck, rolled over the rounded plates, and splashed into the water.
“A rope!” howled Carl, jumping up and down on the deck to attract Dick’s attention; “a rope! Bob is in der vater mit a Inchun, und he vill be trowned!”
Dick came hurrying up the ladder with a coil of line.
“Here!” he cried, tossing the coil to Carl. “Get busy, mate. I’ll lay the Grampus closer, and mind Bob gets hold of the rope.”
Bob and the native were still struggling. The fact that they were in fifteen or twenty fathoms of water did not seem to impress either of them with the necessity of swimming to keep afloat.
When they first tumbled into the water, there was a great splash, and they disappeared; when they came up, they were puffing like porpoises, but Bob had his hands around his antagonist’s throat, and the savage was hanging to Bob’s hair.
“Help Glennie!” sputtered Bob, who, by then, was some distance astern. “Capture that man!”
“Glennie be hanged!” growled Dick. “We’ll save our chum, no matter what happens to the ensign.”
Carl, standing ready to heave the rope, was mixed up in the ensign’s battle by an unexpected trend of it which nearly knocked him overboard. The two, still twisting and striving for possession of the spear, struggled toward the conning tower and collided with the Dutch boy. The matter of self-defense suddenly presented itself to Carl, and he dropped the rope and went for the savage like a tiger.
It was not the spear Carl wanted, but the savage himself. The ensign was eliminated, and Carl and the native went down on the deck, rolling and pummeling.