The two men in the stern of the boat were locked in each other’s embrace. Sam had had the advantage, for he had landed on top of his adversary. Petersen, however, had muscles of steel, hardened by years of service and labor on shipboard. He tried to grab the black man by the throat. The two slipped to the bottom of the boat, where they struggled for the mastery until the veins stood out on their temples and the sweat rolled from them in streams. Their breath came in gasps. It was a strange sight that the early tropical sun looked down upon.
They wrestled and writhed about on the bottom of the boat, first one on top and then the other. It seemed miraculous that they did not go overboard. The space in which they struggled was so limited that it was next to impossible for any one of the boys to get himself in a position to separate the fighters. Several times Grant tried, but he was always driven back, and after several narrow escapes from falling into the water he gave up the attempt. Fred still lay quietly in the bow, too dazed to be of assistance.
“We must stop this,” cried John. “They’ll kill each other.”
“I know it, String,” agreed Grant, “but what can we do?”
“Hit Sam over the head. He’s the one that started it.”
“I can’t get to his head. His feet are pointed this way and every time I try I get a few swift kicks and nothing more.”
“But we must do something to stop them,” urged George.
“All right, Pop,” said Grant grimly. “You suggest something.”
“Isn’t there a club in the boat?”
“I don’t see any.”