"Put that down!" ordered Runkle sharply, at the same time making a gesture to indicate his command.
A reply was volubly given in Italian, of which Runkle understood not a word.
In the few seconds that this was happening the five other swarthy men began to close in on the sailor. Runkle lost no time in discovering that fact.
A gesture from the man with the pistol showed that he expected Runkle to hold up his hands.
"You'd rather see my mitts aloft, eh?" asked the sailor, in a mocking voice. "All right, then!"
Up went the sailor's hands, as high as he could raise them. A gleam of satisfaction shone in the eyes behind the revolver, but that look instantly changed to one of pain.
For Runkle, while holding his hands high, also raised one of his feet. That foot went up swiftly, and high enough to land against the lower edge of the bravo's pistol wrist. In a jiffy the wrist was broken and the pistol came clattering to the pavement.
"Much obliged," offered Runkle, snatching up the weapon. Then he raised his voice to yell:
"If there are shipmates within hail let 'em hurry here to keep Jack Runkle from killing a few rattlesnakes!"
Just in time to escape the points of two knives, Seaman Runkle backed against a stucco wall, thrusting out the revolver and his able left fist.