He was dressed, for he had turned in with his clothes on, as usual. But the night air chilled him, and he shivered as he crept out and looked off toward the land. He turned his collar up about his throat, and stepped over to the side of the vessel.
An instant, and he was conscious of someone near. He turned just as a figure leaped out at him from the shadow of the forecastle. Harvey was quick and strong. Realizing a sudden peril—he knew not what—he darted to one side as the figure sprang toward him, and struck out at the same moment with his left arm.
He was not a second too soon. There was disclosed to him the tall, swarthy stranger they had taken aboard that afternoon. The man, his arm uplifted and holding an open knife in that hand, made a lunge at him.
The blow missed Harvey, and his own blow, aimed at random, caught the man’s shoulder and stopped his rush. At the same moment, the man recognized the boy and stood still and silent, peering at him, wondering and surprised.
Harvey, alert to the situation, thought quickly and spoke—in a half whisper.
“Don’t strike me,” he said. “If you want to escape, I’ll help you. I’m not to blame for your being here.”
The man did not reply, but he seemed to understand. Yet he was not taking all for granted. He stepped to Harvey’s side, holding the knife threateningly. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and peered into his face. Then he put a finger to Harvey’s lips and raised the knife again.
Harvey nodded. “I’ll keep quiet,” he whispered. “What are you going to do, swim?”
The man clearly did not understand what Harvey had said, but he caught at the one word.
“Swim,” he repeated, and nodded. “Swim. I swim.” And he made a sweeping gesture with one arm.