Clumsily built as the man was—he had not an iota of the agility possessed by the lithe and supple Ned—yet he seemed to wind and twist like a sapling under Ned's holds; recovering from each grip, he laid his hands on the boy with the same deadly precision.
Ned began to feel that his nervous system was a pincushion for his opponent to puncture at will.
The old hiplock, the Nelson, the half-Nelson, the grip at the back of the neck—all these tricks of the wrestler's craft Ned tried in turn, but none of them seemed to have any effect on Kennell.
And all the time the bluejacket kept up his deadly assaults on Ned's nerve centers, pressing them deftly and producing excruciating pain.
Once Ned wrenched free, and glad he was of the brief spell in which he could take stock of his remaining faculties.
It was not that he was winded, or that Kennell was too strong for him. In fact, Ned felt that, well-muscled as the bluejacket was, he had his own system in better fighting shape.
The strange methods of Kennell were what worried him. He could not seem to escape the assaults of those hawklike hands.
Suddenly a partial explanation of the mystery came to him.
Old Tom stepped forward and whispered in his ear, during the brief period in which the two sprang about, eying each other narrowly.