The third fellow proved to have more sand, for he made a wicked lunge at me with his oar, and only that I threw up my left arm, I must have received a blow on the cranium that, following the first, might have done for me entirely.
As it was, I would have a sore arm for some time to come, and might thank my lucky stars that it had not been broken, for he made a vicious blow.
Thankful for past favors, I returned him a Roland for his Oliver, for I fired when he was only five feet from the muzzle of my pistol, and it did not require target practice then to bring down my bird.
Instead of shooting the other two howling dervishes in the boat, I bent over, seized an oar from the craft, and then gave the latter a vigorous push that sent it far off.
Thus had I, single handed, gained the mastery over one of the hostile boats.
Robbins needed help. He was embroiled in a desperate hand-to-hand struggle with the other chaps.
Probably they had seized upon his boathook and drawn alongside in that way; I do not know just how it was done, but when I turned, after my successful little crusade, I found the whole three were reaching out for the mate, and threatening to come aboard.
The captured oar was in my hands, and surely I knew only too well what misery it was capable of producing when properly applied.
My stout ashen weapon, as I expected, served to create a diversion among the ranks of the enemy.
The first man who sampled its qualities went down in the bottom of the boat in a heap, to mingle his groans and swear words with the fellow who sat wildly feeling here and there over the whole surface of his anatomy, endeavoring to discover where my bullet had lodged.