"Loose him," called the captain, unconcernedly.
"Give him his way."
The man stooped and unfastened the cord which held Felton's wrists, then, even as he scrambled to his feet, he released his ankles.
"Now, you dog, take it," he growled, launching his fist at the man's face. It landed squarely, and the man went down, bleeding. He arose, but instead of resisting, or making any attempt to strike back, stood placidly in his tracks while the angry man struck him again.
Once more he went down, to rise again and tranquilly face his assailant. Felton hesitated, while his anger cooled a little; this kind of fighting was new to him. But the kick in his ribs flashed into his mind and the anger came back. "Fight! Fight!" he growled, and again knocked the fellow down. This time he put all his strength, and the weight of his body into the blow, with the result that the man reeled aft past the steering gear before he fell. He sat up and turned his swollen, bleeding face toward Felton, but did not rise nor speak.
"You've had enough, I judge," said Felton. "Any one else here who wants to kick me?"
No one answered. They were all looking down, and even the victim joined in the scrutiny. Not one had seemed in any way interested in the fracas.
"Come on. Who's next?" said the puzzled Felton.
"It is against our rules here to fight," said the nearest man, without looking up. "We save our energies for the enemy."
"But it seems within your rules to kick a prisoner," answered Felton in disgust.