{Illustration: "A WELL-DIRECTED THRUST ENABLED BRANDON TO REDUCE THE NUMBER BY ONE."
[P. 108}
Down went the Belgian, dragging another with him, the two falling upon the man who had previously been "ditched." Their combined weight and bulk sent the boat a good five yards from the smack; while the two men left on the Frolic's fore-deck, finding their retreat cut off, promptly leapt overboard.
"That's settled 'em!" exclaimed Old Negus triumphantly. "Eh? What be the matter wi' your head, boy?"
"Only a scratch," replied Brandon, hardly aware of the fact that blood was trickling from a cut in the centre of his forehead.
But the old fisherman was wrong in his surmise. The assailants, having pulled the swimmers into their boat, were returning to the attack.
Undeterred by half a dozen stones hurled by the crew of the Frolic, the poachers again rowed towards the smack, the bowman protecting himself by holding up a large triangular grating. By this time it was evident that they were aware of the actual number of the Frolic's crew, and confident in a four-to-one superiority they sought to end the encounter by a determined rush.
In a trice Old Negus dashed into the fo'c'sle, emerging with a huge iron saucepan filled with boiling water.
"Stand clear, boy!" he exclaimed warningly; then with a sweep of his sinewy arm he hurled the saucepan and its scalding contents into the midst of the attackers in the bow of the boat.
Yells and screams of agony burst from the tortured men. Oars trailed aimlessly alongside, as they relinquished them to hold their hands to their blistering faces.