The boy struggled bravely, but the yellow man had the first hold and he was tremendously strong, as Tom soon found out while he helplessly thrashed and struggled.
But either Simon Lake was not as badly injured as they thought, or else he managed to make a superhuman effort, for just as the Mongolian had Tom down on the cabin floor and his yellow fingers were digging in his throat, Lake hurled himself out of his bunk upon the yellow man, bearing him with resistless force to the floor under his great weight.
This was the tableau that Zeb Hunt, rushing into the cabin, arrived just in time to see. He came to the aid of his superior and they soon had the tall Chinaman helpless.
“Sarch his blouse, Zeb! Sarch his blouse!” bellowed Simon Lake, his wound apparently forgotten in his excitement.
“I’ll tie him first,” said the prudent Zeb, producing some yarn. Then, with the Mongolian helplessly pinioned to a stanchion, the mate proceeded to search him. Almost the first object he found was the vial which Tom had seen.
“Here it is, boss,” he said. “Just as the youngster said.”
The Chinaman bent an angry glare on them.
“Him no poison. Him medicine,” he cried.
“Oh, it is, is it. Well, I’ll mix you up a dose of it and see if you’ll take it,” declared Zeb.
Procuring a glass, he mixed up some of the red drops with water. But when they were thrust toward him, the Chinaman had to admit by his refusal to take it that the stuff was deadly poison.