The fellows inside knew their book.
“Dash in the door, Gourmand!”
The giant’s right shoulder fell on it like a muffled battering ram, and, at the second blow, it fell with a crash almost on top of those behind it.
“Up arms or I shoot,” cried Fitzroy.
This was a vain threat, and I suppose the kidnappers knew it. For to have fired would have endangered the life of poor Peggy.
But Gourmand knocked both fellows down as they tried to escape, and the showman stood over them with his revolver.
The battle was not yet over however. Indeed it had not well begun. There was a shout from beach-wards, and the yachtsmen, six in all, were seen rushing on to the rescue.
And bad would it have gone with Fitzroy and even the giant himself had not at that very moment not only Johnnie with the hound, but the two keepers arrived to join the fray.
That fray would have done an Irishman at Ballyporeen credit, and to have seen how Gourmand laid around him, flailing right and left, would have rejoiced the heart of a Cuscerora Indian.
He fell at last, however, with a shot through his wrist, and there was a lull and a few moments’ parley. But fishermen were being attracted to the scene and dreading capture, the whole band made good their retreat to their boat. Soon they were on board and getting up anchor.