In boxing there is nothing more painful than a blow on the 'mark.' It knocks all the breath out of the body, and for some time the lungs seem paralysed. This was practically what had happened to Ken. He had fallen full on his chest, and though his senses remained clear enough, he simply could not get his breath back.
When at last he succeeded in doing so he felt as weak as a cat, and deadly sick into the bargain. It was some moments before he could even manage to roll off the body of the man beneath him.
He struggled to his feet and found that he was at the bottom of a bluff about twenty feet high. To the right was a sheer drop to the sea. He shivered as he glanced over to the fog-shrouded waves, full eighty feet below. The ledge on which he had landed was only four or five yards wide. A very little more, and he and his enemy together must have gone clean over the cliff.
He turned to the German. The latter lay still enough—so still that at first Ken thought he was dead. But presently he saw that the man was still breathing.
'A hospital case,' muttered Ken in puzzled tones. 'What the mischief am I to do with him?'
'Ken—Ken, where are you?'
The anxious question came from overhead, and glancing up Ken saw Dave Burney's head appearing over the edge of the bluff.
'I'm all right,' he answered. 'What about you?'
'We've nobbled our little lot,' Dave answered with justifiable pride. 'My word, but I'm glad to see you. I thought you'd gone right over into the sea.'
'I wasn't far off it,' said Ken. 'I say, is there any way up to the top again. This is nothing but a ledge?'