“So!” he exclaimed harshly. “Passengers—mutiny!”
He got no further. As Osceola jumped for the switch to snap off the light, Bill dived through the air, tackling the commander just above his knees. There came a crash as the Baron’s head hit the deck—then darkness.
Osceola ran to the doorway. The Baron lay prone. Bill was bending over him.
“Nine—ten—out!” said that young gentleman rather breathlessly. “Grab his legs, big boy. We’ll move him inside. It’s a little too public out here for comfort.”
Together they carried the big man into the wireless house and deposited him on the floor.
“Here’s a bight of rope,” said Bill, switching on the light again. “Tie up his ankles—I’ll attend to his wrists.”
“Shall we gag him?”
“No, he’s breathing pretty hard. Slight concussion, probably. The back of his head hit the decking an awful crack. I don’t want him to choke to death.”
Osceola finished lashing the Baron’s legs together and stood up. “He’s a right powerful brute. Got a pair of legs like tree-trunks. Say,” he began to laugh, “I didn’t think our job would be done up as brown as all this tonight! That was a swell tackle of yours. The longer he’s out the better pleased I’ll be. That guy has never made a hit with me. I’m only sorry I didn’t get a crack at him. If you’ve got an extra wipe, pass it over. A blindfold won’t stop his breathing, and there’s no need for him to know where he is when he wakes up.”
“Okay. I’ve unhooked the collar of his blouse,” Bill said, surveying their captive critically. “He’ll do. Give me a hand with the other guy, now. I’m going to take out his gag and give him a drink.”