“You would, would you, you old walrus,” cried the brawny tar. And with that he lifted his brawny fist. Once more the girl cried out. She sprang between the two.
“For shame!” she cried.
But the brute in the seaman was aroused; with a rough push he forced her aside; then he took a menacing step toward the old man, his hand lifted once more.
This time he found himself face to face with George Prentiss, who had leaped from the deck of the shallop at the girl’s first cry.
“What, sailor,” cried the young man, placing one hand against the tar’s broad chest, “a fair and fit lad like yourself is surely not going to grapple with an old man.”
“That he’s an old un is not my fault,” growled the other; “so get out of the way, my hearty, before I hurt you.”
But young Prentiss laughed.
“As for that,” he said, “you may be able. But then again, you may not.” Then over his shoulder he spoke swiftly to Mr. Dana, “Take him away—and the young lady, too.”
The seaman’s hard face had darkened. “So, my young ship-jack,” said he, “you’ve got your doubts, have you? You don’t think, then,” with a sneer, “that you’re as much too young as the other is too old?”
“Not in the least,” said George, still good humoredly. “But nevertheless, sailor, we’ll try to pass it all by. No harm has been done any one; so we’ll say no more about it.”