Carl was having a hard time of it. The Chilian was not large, but hard labor in the penal settlement of Punta Arenas had developed his muscles.
Carl, at the bottom of the hatchway leading up to the periscope room, was doing his utmost to bear the Chilian down in the passage leading to the tank room. He was on the rascal's back, throttling him with his hands, and trying to force him forward.
The man, holding the harpoon point up, was jabbing with it over his shoulder. It was a dangerous instrument, and if Carl had been struck fairly with the lance-like point, he would surely have been badly hurt.
"You t'ought you hat got der pest oof Modor Matt, hey?" Carl was whooping as he continued compressing his fingers about the brown throat and gave no attention to the harpoon. "Vell, you got some more t'oughts coming. I peen Modor Matt's chum, und I vas a rekular horned ven I got my mad oop—a yellow chacket mit some stingers, yah, so! Vy don'd you fall mit yourseluf? Vy don'd——"
Just then the point of the harpoon ran through Carl's hair, raking his scalp.
"Shdop id, oder I vill shdrangle you!" Carl cried.
The Chilian, so to speak, had got the range. He was breathing in choking gasps, but he still had strength enough to stand upright, and he was preparing for a backward thrust with the harpoon, which might have won the day for him had not Dick interfered.
At the critical moment Dick seized the fellow's arm and wrenched it so severely that the harpoon fell clanging to the steel floor. The next instant the boys had the Chilian down.
"Get a rope, Carl!" puffed Dick. "I can hold him while you're doing it. Better get two ropes—one for Matt to use."
Carl darted into the torpedo room, and was soon back with the ropes. They were the same ones that had been used to secure him and Matt.