“Stand aside!”
Then—Chop!
One dull, heavy blow, and the hawser, cut closely through where it passed over the bows, dropped with a splash into the water and disappeared.
The little party at the cabin window sent out a cheer and then a groan, for the bow man had hooked on, and the Americans began to climb up, their leader having his hands on the bulwarks, and sprang aboard, when something black, which proved to be Taters’ fist, struck him in the face, and he fell back.
Another’s head appeared above the side, and there was another blow and a splash.
Almost simultaneously Grote struck at another man with a capstan bar, and to avoid the blow, the man ducked his head, lost his hold, and, less fortunate than Mark had been, was hurled with a tremendous splash into the water, in company with the second man, while another got his head up in time to receive a crack which sent him also backward into the sea.
The man holding on loosed his hold to save his companions, who were swimming; and as the Nautiluses at the cabin window breathlessly watched and saw them picked up, they became as much interested in the fate of one of the party as if he had been a friend.
“Get an oar over,” cried Mark. “Scull your boat to that man; he’s going down.”
“The muddle-head!” cried Tom Fillot. “Can’t he scull?”
No doubt they were hard upon the man, who was doing his best. He had helped two men into the boat—no easy task when they are half-stunned, and by consequence comparatively helpless—and he had been doing his best to get to the others, who had paddled feebly and then thrown up their hands to grasp wildly at vacancy, so that the case began to look hopeless indeed.