The respite, agonizing though it was, was a short one. A warning cry—whence it came Peter knew not—put him on the alert.
Approaching with swift, cat-like movements were two more Arabs, one of whom was the captain of the dhow. The latter had a knife in his hand, its long blade shimmering in the starlight. The other fellow, although he wore a knife in his sash, relied upon an iron bar as a weapon of offence.
For the first time during the encounter Peter remembered his automatic. The thought gave him confidence for the renewed struggle, but his fingers, trembling with the muscular reaction, fumbled as he drew the pistol from his pocket.
He was a fraction of a second too late. Before he had time to level the weapon the Arab with the bar dealt him a terrific, flail-like blow. Stepping aside and stooping, Peter avoided the swing of the weapon by a hairbreadth, but the automatic was struck from his grasp and flew half a dozen yards along the deck.
The Arab, carried half-round by the impetus of the swing of the bar, finished up by dealing the captain a heavy blow upon the wrist that caused him to drop the knife.
Instantly Peter saw and seized his opportunity. Grasping the Arab sailor round the waist he advanced upon the captain, using the former as a shield and battering-ram.
Retrieving the knife with his left hand, the skipper of the dhow advanced cautiously, to be confronted at every approach by the struggling, helpless form of his compatriot.
