"You young hound, I'm going to kill you!" hissed Kennell, white with rage, as, for the twentieth time one of his terrific swings met thin air.
"Catch me first!" mocked Ned, skipping backward with agile footwork.
Kennell, who was breathing heavily, seemed fairly to spring at the lad as he spoke, but Ned nimbly sidestepped, and Kennell went careening ahead like a man shot out of a suddenly checked auto.
"Keep your wind to fight with!" advised Ned jeeringly. But, alas for his confidence, as he spoke his foot caught on a deck ring he had not observed, and he fell backward, sprawling.
He was up in a breath, but Kennell, with a roar of triumph, was on him in a flash.
The bluejacket's great arms, hairy as a bear's, shot out and encircled Ned in a grip that threatened to crush his ribs in.
It was a lock grip.
Ned, as the breath was slowly crushed out of his body, felt as if the fight had ended.
He saw defeat, utter and absolute, staring before him.