From a growl Blake’s voice burst into a roar of fury, and he sprang upon Winthrope like a wild beast. His hands closed upon the Englishman’s throat, and he began to shake him about, paying no heed to the blows his victim showered upon his face and body, blows which soon began to lessen in force.
Terror-stricken, Miss Leslie put her hands over her eyes, and began to scream–the piercing shriek that will unnerve the strongest man. Blake paused as though transfixed, and as the half-suffocated Englishman struggled in his grasp, he flung him on the ground, and turned to the screaming girl.
“Stop that squawking!” he said. The girl cowed down. “So; that’s better. Next time keep your mouth shut.”
“You–you brute!”
“Good! You’ve got a little spunk, eh?”
“You coward–to attack a man not half your strength!”
“Steady, steady, young lady! I’m warm enough yet; I’ve still half a mind to wring his fool neck.”
“But why should you be so angry! What has he done, that you–”
“Why–why? Lord! what hasn’t he done! This coast fairly swarms with beasts. We’ve not the smell of a gun; and now this idiot–this dough-head–has gone and thrown away our only chance–fire–and on his measly cigarettes!” Blake choked with returning rage.
Winthrope, still panting for breath, began to creep away, at the same time unclasping a small penknife. He was white with fear; but his gray eyes–which on shipboard Blake had never seen other than offensively supercilious–now glinted in a manner that served to alter the American’s mood.