“Is that a threat?” said she, haughtily, as steps sounded on the gravel walk around the corner of the house.
“No fear,” I snapped out without thinking, and, as I did so, Hicks and Captain Howard swung around the corner and were alongside.
The old pirate stopped and looked at me a moment. “What’s this fellow doing here?” he asked, noting my attitude, which was not of respect to Mr. Curtis.
“I don’t know,” said he; “but if you will kindly lend me your cutlass, I’ll see if he has blood in him.”
The old fellow instantly drew forth the hanger he always carried whenever going ashore, and passed the hilt to Mr. Curtis. Hicks stood near, smiling contemptuously.
The affair began to have a serious look. I could hardly run with honour, and Miss Allen would sooner have cut off her right hand than ask him to withhold the blade.
“Sir John,” she cried, turning to Hicks, “if that man is harmed, you will live to be sorry for it. Heywood,” she said, turning to me, “go about your business.”
“Not while he has that weapon in his hand,” said I, “but if he will lay it aside, and step down on the beach here--” Here he made a pass that would have given me a bad stab had not Hicks knocked the thrust aside with his heavy walking-stick, which he now held before him like a sword.
Like a flash, Curtis turned upon him. The cutlass rose and fell like rapid flashes of lightning in the gathering darkness, but each stroke found the thick cane in its path, and Hicks remained unhurt.
Howard burst into a loud guffaw. “Go it, bullies!” he cried. “Poke him in the ribs, Curtis! Whang him on the knuckles, Hicks! Stand to it! Stand to it! No flinching!”