For a brief instant the Sub stood his ground, then stepped nimbly aside. The ex-stoker's massive fist grazed his left ear, the impetus of the blow throwing the fellow forward. Before he could recover his balance, Broadmayne, putting every ounce into it, delivered a right, followed by a hook with his left.
Of what happened after that he had only a hazy idea. Like in a mist he saw the powerful figure of his antagonist collapse. He appeared to fall neither forward nor backward, but to subside as his knees gave way. To Broadmayne it seemed a full minute that this continued; then, as his knees touched the steel deck the ex-stoker rolled over on his side.
"One... two... three..."
The man made an effort to rise. Broadmayne stepped forward, ready to finish the business; but there was no need. Gasping like a stranded fish, the ex-stoker rolled over again.
"... Eight... nine... ten."
Down and out!
Still a bit dazed, Broadmayne went back to his corner and leant heavily against his chum. The men were cheering like mad. It dawned upon him that they were cheering him. Tough, desperate ruffians they might be, but they were sportsmen, members of a race that produces the best winners and the best losers in the world.
Pengelly congratulated him; so did Barnard, Marchant and most of the crew. But Captain Cain held aloof. He was furious with himself for having allowed the contest to take place. His authority had been wrecked. The crew's attitude towards his captives had undergone a complete change. He bitterly regretted having taken them on board.
Yet, short of committing murder, he could not get rid of them. Had he been sure of his crew, he might even have taken that step, although he was loath to do so. He could not set them ashore: they knew too much. Besides, he still hoped to rake in a substantial sum for their ransom.
"Sail on the starboard bow, sir!"