But something happened to Matt, just what he had not the least idea. All he knew was that he was lifted high and sent crashing headfirst into a thicket of bushes.
The second Jap had put into practice one of the wrestling tricks he had learned in Nippon.
Matt, however, was not sorry he had been thrown in that unceremonious fashion, for, just as he dropped into the bushes, the sodden whang of a rifle spoke from the crest of the ridge and a bullet flew whining over the very spot where he had been running.
The other two Japs had lost little time in coming to the aid of their comrades.
Matt was up almost as soon as he was down. His superb physical training rendered him proof against any such fall as that he had just received.
Both Japs were reaching for him as he ducked clear of the bushes, but he slipped out from under their gripping fingers and flashed down the slope like a streak, screening his flight with every particle of tangled undergrowth that got in his way.
The rifles behind him continued to cough and splutter. The unarmed Japs, however, were between Matt and the marksmen, and the care the latter had to use sent their bullets wide.
The Japs were no match for Matt when it came to sprinting. Matt had learned the game from a half-breed friend, the best "miler" in Arizona, and he now showed the Japs how an American boy can run when he has his heart in it.
Before the yellow men had cleared the fringe of bushes at the edge of the beach, Motor Matt was in the water; and when the Japs emerged, Dick plowed up the ground at their feet with bullets from the Marlin, and drove them back.