The Frenchman had only one of his hands about Bob’s throat and the other was pressing against his left shoulder. Quickly working his right hand beneath the man’s arm, he seized hold of his wrist with both hands, and exerting all his strength, gave it a quick twist. The bone snapped with an audible crack and the man, with a cry of pain, leaped to his feet and Bob at once did likewise.
For a moment the Frenchman seemed too dazed to speak, then as he tried in vain to lift the injured arm, he whispered hoarsely:
“You hav’ bust dat arm.”
Bob saw at once that all the fight had been taken out of the man.
“It’s too bad it had to be done,” he said not unkindly, “but it was the only way I could keep you from choking me to death. Now,” he continued in a firm tone, as the Frenchman looked at him, his face contorted with both anger and pain, “if you want to save yourself a good deal of trouble with that arm you’ll not try to hinder me but let me get this boat back to the wharf as soon as possible.”
“Oui, I no bother you,” the man groaned, as he sank into an old chair.
Bob at once threw open the door of the furnace, and seeing that the fire was in fair shape, he put on a couple of shovelsfull of coal and opened the drafts. There was nothing more he could do until he had a head of steam.
“Arm pain you much?” he asked, as he sat down on the doorstep.
“Oui, she hurt plenty mooch,” the man growled.
“Why did you try to steal the boat?”