The detective’s hard fists drove right and left into the faces of the men before him.
Usually they landed on the jaw, although now and then, for a change, the target was an eye or nose.
“Come on!� roared Nick Carter, warming up comfortably with all this excitement. “How many are there of you?�
One—two! One—two![Pg 34]
In the quiet of the night, with no other sounds to be heard, the blows thudded as if some one were kicking a dog.
One of the sailors went down, but the two left came on, fighting desperately.
The detective was ready for them.
A finished boxer, he was economical of his exertions. When he struck, he always landed, and when he parried, he moved only just so much as was required to ward off a blow.
There were no fancy twists or ballet master’s gyrations about Nick Carter when using his fists in real battle.
A rain of heavy blows descended upon him. He retired just enough to get arm room, and came back steadily.