Tom now held him helpless, kneeling on him.
“What were you trying to fish out of that jacket pocket?” demanded the young motor boat captain, thrusting his own hand in. He drew out something and held it up briefly—a clasp knife.
“A coward’s tool!” uttered Tom, his voice ringing scornfully. Then he threw the clasp knife far out so that it splashed in the water. “Why don’t you cultivate a man’s muscle and fight like a man, instead of toting around things like that? Come, get up on your feet.”
Bounding up, Halstead yanked the other upright. In a twinkling the swarthy man broke from him, sprinting off the pier.
“You haven’t learned to run right, either,” grinned Halstead, dashing after the “pirate” and gripping a hand in his collar.
That brought them facing each other again. How the swarthy one glared at his resolute young captor! They were about of a height, these two, and might have weighed about the same. But the man possessed nowhere near the strength of this sea-toughened boy.
“Now see here,” spoke Tom more pleasantly, “I’m doing what I think is right or I wouldn’t venture to be so rough. Walk along with me sensibly, until we can find out where a constable lives. I’ve got the best of you and you realize I can do it again. But I don’t want to be rough with you. It goes against the grain.”
The swarthy one’s only answer was to glare at the young skipper with a look full of hate.
Tom suddenly changed his tone.
“I know what you’re thinking of, my man,” he cried tauntingly. “You are just thinking to yourself what a fine time you’d have with me if you had me down in Honduras—where your friends do things in a different way!”