Alvarez’s lips shut suddenly with a snap. While he was speaking he had been looking astern. Tom Halstead now squirmed as he saw the Spaniard’s startled gaze fixed directly on him.
“Pedro!” shouted the swarthy one. “Look sharp, man. There’s some one in that cubby astern!”
Alvarez had started himself to leave the wheel. Then, realizing that the boat would run wild without some one at the helm, he pointed dramatically.
Though Halstead had trusted to the darkness and the shadow in that cubby, the discovery that he dreaded had happened. Not willing to be caught in there, like a fox in a trap, he made a lively scramble to get out. He was on his feet in the cockpit by the time that Pedro, staring as though at a ghost, leaped up and faced him.
“Grab the boy!” shouted Alvarez in glee. “Nab him and hold him fast. Pedro, you shall have a present for this!”
As Halstead scrambled out he had looked for some object with which to defend himself. There was nothing at hand. He was obliged to face his bigger assailant with nothing but his fists.
“Keep off!” warned Halstead, throwing up his guard.
As the negro leaped for him Tom shot out his left fist, landing on the side of the black man’s head. The blow had no effect, save that it angered Pedro, who struck out with his own right. It was a powerful blow. Halstead dodged so that he received it only glancingly, but the act of dodging threw him off his balance. He toppled, then plunged swiftly overboard, sinking from sight.
“Stop the engine! I want him alive!” screamed Alvarez, leaping away from the wheel.
Pedro responded swiftly, stopping the speed, then reversing the engine briefly. The launch was brought to, almost stationary, close to the place where Tom Halstead had fallen overboard.