“Get it yourself,” said Flint.
Cunningham appeared small and boyish beside the ex-beachcomber.
“I’m speaking to you decently, Flint, when I ought to bash in your head.” 204
The tone was gentle and level.
“Why don’t you try it?”
The expectant men thereupon witnessed a feat that was not only deadly in its precision but oddly grotesque. Cunningham’s right hand flew out with the sinister quickness of a cobra’s strike, and he had Flint’s brawny wrist in grip. He danced about, twisted and lurched until he came to an abrupt stop behind Flint’s back. Flint’s mouth began to bend at the corners—a grimace.
“You’ll break it yourself, Flint, if you move another inch,” said Cunningham, nonchalantly. “This is the gentlest trick I have in the bag. Cut out the booze until we’re off this yacht. Be a good sport and play the game according to contract. I don’t like these side shows. But you wanted me to show you. Want to call it off?”
Sweat began to bead Flint’s forehead. He was straining every muscle in his body to minimize that inexorable turning of his elbow and shoulder.
“The stuff is in Number Two bunker,” he said, with a ghastly grin. “I’ll chuck it over.”
“There, now!” Cunningham stepped back. “I might have made it your neck. But I’m patient, because I want this part of the game to go through according to schedule. When I turn back this yacht I want nothing missing but the meals I’ve had.” 205