The breathing of the two men came in short, sharp barks that sounded hoarsely as coughs as they stood straining there in a deathlike lock.
For a second or two all motion ceased, and they stood, except for the working of their opposed muscles, like two stone figures.
The next instant, however, the slow, irresistible force of Ned's compressing arms overcame Kennell's stubborn resistance, and the bluejacket was dragged yet nearer into the toils he dreaded—dreaded with white, frightened face and beaded brow.
But even as Ned prepared to throw him with a mighty crash to the deck, a strange thing happened.
Kennell's body grew limp as a half-filled flour sack and slid like an inert mass down Ned's body.
The next instant the boy felt his ankles gripped in a steel-like hold, and, utterly unable to resist, he was toppled over to the deck. As he fell, one of Kennell's big hands slid round to the back of the Dreadnought Boy's neck, and Ned simultaneously experienced a queer, fainting feeling, as if he were being borne far away from the Manhattan and his surroundings, up, far aloft, into the fleecy clouds.
Again the hand struck, so softly it seemed as if his neck had been merely stroked, but the sense of illusion increased.
Ned's eyes closed.
Suddenly—just as it seemed to the boy that he was entering a delightful land, where flowers bloomed luxuriantly and birds sang the sweetest song—a sharp voice shattered his illusion like a soap bubble.
"Ned! Ned, old chap! Get him, for the love of Mike!"