And there was plenty of it, and lively, too, while it lasted.
The other Spaniard, who had been peering into the water ahead, turned sharply around when he heard the noise made by the splash of his companion, and in the act involuntarily dropped the revolver.
What must have been his feelings upon beholding the lithe and dripping form of the plucky young American emerging from the sea, may well be imagined.
But Clif did not pause to study the effects. He seized an oar and sprang toward his remaining foe.
"Surrender, you villain!" he cried in Spanish as he advanced.
The Spaniard seized an oar and with an oath sprang toward the American.
And there, on the quiet bosom of the water in the dim light of night, ensued a stubbornly contested duel, in which oars took the place of broadsword and sabre.
Clif fought savagely and desperately. His blood was up, and he knew that now, if ever, he was, fighting for his life.
But in the end it was fortune that favored him. A chance blow upon his antagonist's head rendered the latter unconscious, and victory again perched upon the young American's banner.
There was no time for exultation, even if he had felt that way. The work had been too serious, and necessity for action was too imperative.